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COPTBIGHT 1902, 

—BY- 
JAMES MARTIN SHAWHAN. 



THF LJBRAftY OF 

00NC5RES$, 
•"wj Co«Kt» Rtosiveo 

MOV, n t(jf^? 

cu»<i8<3.*yxc No. 






TO MY MOTHER, 

Eva a. 



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INTRODUCTION. 

In presenting this book to the public, knowing 
well, as I do, that it will ever remain a living tell-tale 
of an unschooled mind, I cannot help but fell abashed. 
However, I did the best I could. 

For the little storehouse of knowledge from which 
I have gleaned enough to compile this volume I am in- 
debted chiefly to those three great, kind and impartial 
educators, MOTHEK, NATURE and the PUBLIC 
PRESS. 

I would have it understood that I do not present 
these verses under the mistaken idea that they are gems^ 
but give them to you just as I found them, plain, un- 
polished pebbles picked up on the play grounds of the 
hard school of life; and if while scanning them you 
should find one stanza wherein my heart has beat in 
unison with yours I shall feel amply repaid. 



The Little Cot Against the Hill. 



A little cot against the hill, 

With scarcely ground to hold it there; 

But then the sun peeps in as sweet 

To warm the tiny baby's feet 

As though it was a mansion rare. 

No bricabrac bedecks the wall; 
No costly carpet spreads the floor; 
But I'll be fuUy satisfied 
If love and peace will just abide, 
And never ask for any more. 

For all I do the best I can. 

The table's often scantly spread; 
But while I still confide each day 
In Him who leadeth all the way, 
I know I'll never want for bread. 

With baby's arms around my neck, 
I rock the evening hours away, 
Kind Providence is ever near. 
And the good wife of mine to cheer; 
So I for nothing more will pray. 

The little cot against the hill, 
With scarcely ground to hold it there; 
But then I love its cheerful hearth — 
The dearest place to me on earth — 
The only one for which I care. 



Christmas Ere on HarmarBilL 



'Tis midnight bourdon Harmar Hill, 

The city slumbers down below. 

Electric lights like fire-flies glow, 
And ev'rything is hushed and still. 
As slow the hours drag away, 

I think about the days agone. 

And anxiously await the dawn 
To usher in the holy day. 

In rapturous dreams of baby dolls 
My little one now calmly sleeps, 
While here and there a shadow creeps 

Along the dingy cottage walls; 

And, as I hang her little toy 
Upon the tiny Christmas tree, 
The distant years come back to me 

And I am but an anxious boy. 

For, while I dream beside the hearth, 

I seem to hear a dear one tell 

A story that I loved so well 
About the Babe of Royal Birth. 
I list' to catch her voice again, 

But singing breaks the magic spell. 

And soft and sweet, o'er hill and dell. 
Comes "Peace on earth, good will to men." 



Dome. 

There are times when we grow weary 

Of life's troubles and its cares. 
'Tis then the thoughts of home are sure 

To occupy the brain. 
Beset by earth's temptations, 
And its ever luring snares, 
No wonder that we long to see 
The dear old place again. 

No voice like mother's voice to sooth 

And lull us into rest. 
'Tis a balm of consolation, 

When tempest tossed and sore. 
With such a panacea when 

We're weary and oppressed, 
Is it strange that we should want to see 
The dear old face once more ? 

As the compass to the seaman. 

In the blackness of the night, 
When the elements are raging, 

And the foamy billows roll; 
As the star unto the wise men. 

With its grand and holy light. 
So the home is but a magnet 
To the needle of the soul. 



Beautiful Eyes. 



Beautiful eyes, Oh beautiful eyes! 
Could you peep out of the azure skies, 
From where you are lingering this Sabbath eve, 
And give but a glance, it would soon relieve 
This weary heart that is longing for you, 
As I stand and gaze at the mystic blue. 
For no sweeter solace the world supplies 
Than one warm glance of your beautiful eyes. 

Nightly I scan o'er the starry space, 

And oft-times imagine I see your face 

Wreathed in smiles as it used to be. 

When the whole year round seemed June to me. 

But earthly visions, by far too dim, 

Blotted and bleared by the virus of sin, 

To peer through the portals into the skies 

To where you are lingering, beautiful eyes! 

Sometime, somewhere, in the unknown land, 

Face to face and hand in hand, 

I shall meet you again, for the words were true, 

When He said: "I go to prepare for you. 

That where I am thou may'st also be;" 

Oh, comforting words of hope to me. 

On His wonderful promise my soul relies. 

As I watch and wait for your beautiful eyes. 

8 



Wheo Th' Fields is Full 0' Dandelines. 



Listen to th' spatter and th' clatter of th' showers, 
Luren back th' iish'n worms, and beckonen th' flowers, 
Wish't I was a little codger like I use to be; 
Waden in the water puddle's good enough fer me. 
Noth'n ever eny sweeter, heaven only knows. 
Than to feel the mud a squashen up between yer toes. 
That's what I call life worth liven, heart so full o'cheer 
When the fields is full o' dandelines and violets is here. 

Wisht that I could swap th' present fer a day or two 
Of play'n steamboat in th' gutter like we use to do, 
I can see th' barrel stave schooners, how they used to scud 
Up and down th' swollen gutters, laden down with mud. 
We never heard of mortgages and prom'sory notes, 
All we had to bother us was looken after boats. 
That's when life was worth a liven, 'bout the time o' year 
When th' fields was full o' dandelines and violets was here. 

Once a man and twice an infant so th' scripture tells. 
Is it really any wonder that at certain spells 
A feller longs to live'm over, happy childhood hours, 
When he hears th' rain a splash'n coax'n back th' flowers? 
Then we never knowed o' sorrow, never heard o' pain, 
All we had to do wus paddle in th' mud and rain; 
That's what I call life worth liv'n, sweetest time o'year. 
When the fields is full o' dandelines and violets is here. 



A Miser's Fate. 



Somewhat back from the village street 
Stands a mansion old and queer; 
Where lived a miser, so 'tis said, 
With callous heart and hoary head, 
Who ground the poor from year to year; 
For those who ask for alms, they say. 
Were empty handed turned away. 

He never knew what pleasure was. 
No children ever climbed his knee, 
He never knew a wife's embrace. 
And on his horrid wrinkled face 
There shown a tinge of misery. 
And all he did from day to day 
Was hoard his filthy wealth away. 

They found him cold in death one day, 
His eyes were set with glassy stare, 

His hands were tightly clinched, I'm told, 

As if he held them full of gold; 
They opened them but naught was there. 

They closed them on his bony breast, 

The first he ever knew of rest. 

No funeral cortege followed him, 
No tender words were said that day; 
No farewell hymn, no parting prayer, 
They simply took and laid him there 
Within his narrow house of clay, 

10 



As humble and as nude that morn 
As on the day when he was born. 

They telegraphed the country o'er. 
No friends had he that they could find. 
And so the lawyers took a hold ; 
They falsified and swore and stole 
The fortune he had left behind, 
And finally got the whole estate. 
And such is law, and such is fate. 



11 



Boyhood Days. 

I often think of boyhood days, 

How in the early spring 
The sun would shed its balmy rays 

And make the meadows steam, 
And crack the mud along the run 

That settled from the rise, 
Where we would chase each day for fun 

The yellow butterflies. 

'Twas there we had a slippery slide, 

And it was smooth as ice, 
Where down the bank we used to glide 

Into the creek kersplash. 
And oft a piece of mussle shell 

Was sticking in the track. 
But where it was no one could tell 
Till it would rake his back. 

Those were happy days to me 

I never shall forget. 
With breeches rolled above my knees, 

And always wringing wet. 
An old straw hat all gone to seed 

From seining in the run. 
Oh, those were happy days, indeed, 

With nothing else but fun, 

If I could take the cares of life 
And lay them all aside. 



Forgetting all the toils and strife H 

And earth's deceit and pride; \ 

Then wander back to childhood hours, r 

A barefoot boy at play, ) 

I would not change for kingly power, 

With ail its lordly sway. ^ 



I 



13 



Whisper'n 0' May. 

Th' sun is com'n back to meet us, 

Whisper'n o' Spring, 
Easter flowers are gap'n open, 

Birds begin to sing. 
Jest a little windy weather, 

Then th' winter's o'er. 
Dandelions '11 soon be peep'n 

All around th' door. 
Dear ole robin, then we'll hear her. 

At th' break o' day, 
For th' sun is draw'n near'r, 

Whisper'n o' May. 

When I see her in th' morn'n, 

Peep'n o'er th' hill, 
Seem to ketch th' smell o' blossoms, 

Like a feller will. 
When he hears th' hum and buzz'n 

Of th' honey bees, 
Steal'n every bit o' sweetness 

From th' cherry trees, 
Kind o' sets a feller dream'n 

Of his childhood hours, 
When he sees th' sun a stream'n, 

Coax'n back th' flowers. 

Mighty glad th' winter's over, 

Never liked th' snow, 

14 



Since I was a little codger, 

In th' long ago. 
Ruther see th' clover patches 

Full o' butterflies, 
And th' fleecy clouds a drift'n 

Thro' th' summer skies = 
That's when this old world's th' sweetest, 

Always heard 'em say, 
When th' sun comes back to greet us, 

Whisper 'n o' May. 



15 



In Memoriam="Nira Belle Messick. 

There came, upon one Sabbath night, 
A messenger in snowy white, 
With sorrow to our humble door, 
And, with his icy finger tips 
He gently touched and sealed the lips 
Of one we loved — then all was o'er; 
We bowed our heads in grief and sighed 
When Nira died — when Nira died. 

It made our heavy hearts feel glad 
To know the many friends we had 
To sooth us in those trying hours. 
With tender care and loving hands 
They fastened back her silken strands 
With garlands of the rarest flowers, 
Until she seemed a sleeping bride — 
When Nira died — when Nira died. 

It seemed to us so comforting 
To hear the village choir sing 
The dear old hymn she loved the best. 
And when the services were o'er 
We looked upon her face once more. 
Then gently laid her down to rest 
Beneath the daisies and the sod. 
Secure with God — secure with God. 

16 





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Where Mother Lies Sleeping, Place Old-Fashioned Roses. 



Bring Ye Sweet Flowers. 



Bring ye flowers, sweet flowers of every hue, 

Scatter them over each slumbering head. 
Just as their own loving fingers would do 

If they were here again and we were dead. 
Come with your baskets full — graves we have many; 

Remember those Grod-given treasures of ours, 
Scatter them everywhere, don't neglect any; 

O bring ye sweet flowers, bring ye sweet flowers. 

Scatter white lilies where L?»by reposes. 

Emblems of purity, like the wee tots. 
Where mother lies sleeping, place old-fashioned roses, 

And throw on a bunch of forget-me-nots. 
Part the tall clover. Look where the ivy creeps, 

Some graves are hidden almost from our view; 
Hunt the old pioneer; find where the soldier sleeps 

And deck them with garlands; 'tis all you can do. 

In all the wide world, with its different Nations, 

There isn't a land that is washed by the sea 
Where they care for God's Acre with sweet decorations 

As they do in the land of the Brave and the Free. 
So, come with your baskets full, graves we have many. 

Scatter them tenderly, each mound above. 
Scatter them everywhere, don't neglect any; 

O bring ye sweet flowers, fair tributes of love. 



17 



I Trtistingly Wait. 



Of all of the birds i 

That ever were heard, j 

The one that sings saddest to me j 

Is a bit of a thing, i 

And all it can sing ■ 

Is sugar-tree, sugar-tree-tree. i 

f 

When I hear sugar-xree 1 

How it brings back to me \ 

A Spring-time of long, long ago, j 

And two eyes that were bright j 

As the stars in the night, ' 

And two hands that were whiter than snow. ] 

Just plain sugar-tree, 

Yet it brings back to me j 

The scent of white lilies one day, ! 

And two eyes that were closed \ 

In a peaceful repose, j 

And two hands that were colder than clay. \ 

Still I trustingly wait ; 

At the Mystical Gate j 

That shall close on all sorrow and sin, | 
And reveal to my sight 

Two eyes that were bright, j 

And two hands that shall welcome me in. ■ 

18 



Marching Through Cttba. I 



We are coming, gallant Gomez, ■ 

To avenge the nation's wrong; i 

Just hold the fort a little while, j 

We won't detain you long. | 

We are Johnny Rebs and Yankee Boys, ? 

Two hundred thousand strong, ,j 

As we go "Marching through Cuba." | 

Ghoeus. I 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Now don't forget the Maine, I 

Hurrah! Hurrah! We'll sound the joyful strain, ' 

We will paralyze the Spanish, then we'll all come ' 

home again, | 

When we go "Marching through Cuba." f 

We have clothing for the naked, : 
And provisions by the ton; 

There's pork and beans sufficient • 

For to feed you every one, I 

And when we charge the Spaniards I 

We will show them how 'tis done, j 

When we go "Marching through Cuba." t 

When we hear the cry for freedom | 

Coming from the distant shore, i 

How it fills our souls with vengeance 1 

'Till our blood is boiling o'er. J 

We'll annihilate the Spanish ! 

'Till you'll hear of them no more, { 
When we go "Marching through Cuba." 

19 I 



John Barleycorn. \ 



Who made my nose this crimson red, i 

And caused the pain within my head j 

That makes me wish that I was dead? | 

John Barleycorn. • 

Who makes my wife sit up at night ! 

In readiness with me to fight, j 

When I go home a little tight? \ 

John Barleycorn. '■ 

Who racks the minds of brainy men, j 

Until within the prison pen j 

They go to ne'er come out again? « 

John Barleycorn. 

Who takes the strongest and the brave j 

And makes of them a perfect slave i 

To finally fill a pauper's grave? I 

John Barleycorn. \ 

Who robs my children of their shoes j 

To pay internal revenues j 

To men who sit in cushioned pews? \ 

John Barleycorn. 

Who sits and laughs with scorn at me : 

When he has shaped my destiny j 

For a damned eternitj^? j 

John Barleycorn. ] 

Who takes into its treasury 
Twelve million dollars annually 

For all this crime and poverty? i 

Our Government. ' 

20 



The Judge. I 

Remember the Judge? — well I reckon so; j 

Never forget him — don't suppose; 1 

Can see him ez plain to-night somehow, ! 

Ez tho' he wuz standin' afore me now; ' 

Even the specs on his nose. ] 

Can see him saunt'rin 'long the street; I 
Remember well how he used to stand 
With his toes turned out and his knees turned in, 

And standin' collar up to his chin, ! 

And his umbrel in his hand. ] 

Things went wrong for a week or two; • 

All my work seemed gettin' behind; \ 

So lonesome didn't know what to do; j 

Seemed sort o' waitin' on — didn't know who. ] 

Then the Judge'd pop in my mind. ] 

i 

Tender o' heart an' kind wuz he, • 

Blithe an' jolly the live-long day; ] 

Couldn't say no to a friend in distress, i 

An' that's the very reason, I guess, ^ 

Hated to hear o' his passin' away. ■ 

Pelt mighty sorry indeed that day 

When word went round the Judge had died; i 

But that's the way o' the world, you know, j 

And sooner or later we all must go ] 

Over the darkened tide. \ 

Some time or other — who can tell? ,j 
Reckon we'll meet him again, don't you? 

And see his face with the old time smile, ! 

An' clasp his hand for a little while i 

Just like we used to do, ■ 

SI i 



The firape Vine Swing. 



Under the trees where the grape vines cling, 

Hid from the noontide sun, 
That's where I go with my baby to swing 

When my week's work is done. 
And, as I am swinging her to and fro 

I think of the times to be, 
When the years will come and the years will go 

And take her away from me. 

I think of the future from day to day. 

Laden with sorrow and sin. 
And snares that are lurking along life's way 

Waiting to lure her in. 
So I swing her all day with a lullaby song. 

And do all I can to cheer, 
For I know very well it will not be long 

Till the baby will not be here. 

But I hope some day in a beautiful clime. 

In the home of the pure and blest, 
The baby and I may meet some time 

Where our weary feet may rest. 
Then we will be happy as we can be 

In the land of eternal spring, 
And swing 'neath the shades of the evergreen trees 

On a great big grape vine swing. 



Ed. Skimier. 



Know Ed Skinner? Well, I reckon I do, ] 

Can't jes remember when first we met, j 

Think it wuz back in Seventy-two, I 

Or Seventjr-tbree, I jes forget. ' 

Grenial sort of a soul wuz he, \ 

Worse to himself than to other folks; 5 

Didn't think nothin' of a little spree, ; 

And could beat th' Dick'ns tellin' jokes. \ 

Remember th' faces he ust to make | 

Entertainin' the country school; ; 

Laughed till my very sides'd ache i 

At th' blamed ole critter act'n the fool. 

i 

His constitution. I always found, i 

Wuz built for endurin^ lots o' rest; j 

Doesn't do nothin' but potter around, ] 

Both thumbs hooked in th' sides o' his vest. 1 

Always a springin' somethin' new; I 

Always inventin' terrible schemes. i 

First thing you know it'd all fall through — I 

Jes one o' Skinner's idle dreams. | 

Saw th' ole codger tother day ; i 

Don't seem a bit th' worse for wear, \ 

'Cept he's lookin' a sprinkle gray 'i 

And somewhat wrinkled with years o' care. ! 

He's good fer a dozen years or more 

Afore he shuffles this mortal coil. 
Hope he may find on th' unseen shore 

Ample rest fer his years of toil. , 

23 j 

\ 
\ 



To Sol Smith Rassell. 



Turn down the footlights, turn them down lower. 

Roll up the scenery of life, 
Ring down the curtain the last act is over 

In the drama called worry and strife. 

Turn the lights up again, let them burn bright, 

There's a tableau yet on the roll 
Of a beautiful figure in garments of white. 

And the place called the Home of the Soul. 



d4 



Beverly Long Ago. 



It ain't thetown that I used to know, 

Back in the good old days gone by, 
When the smoke from the foundry cupola 

Whirled and curled till it kissed the sky. 
It's nothing at all like it used to be; 

Everything is so changed, somehow; 
Each face I meet seems strange to me, 

And little I'd care to see it now. 

Silent the loom in the woolen mill; 

No busy shuttle flies to and fro. 
The hand that tossed it is cold and still 

Down in the vale where the daisies grow. 
Bridged is the river from shore to shore 

Where the old fashioned ferryboat used to be. 
And I look in vain for the splashing oar 

And the ferryman with crooked knee. 

Little we knew of worldly cares; 

Joys were plenty and troubles few. 
Folks those days didn't put on airs 

If they happened to have a dollar or two. 
No sweeter boon could be given me; 

No king could ask for a grander treat 
Than to see the old town as it used to be 

Back in the days when life was sweet. 



35 



Please Send The Register. 



While lookin' through the paper, kind o' eager like for 

news, 
Readin' sojers' letters an' their sentiments an' views, 
I run across an article that teched the tender spot, 
Jes like the blamed things will sometimes ef you want' m 

to or not. 
'Twas a letter from Camp Alger an' it says "If you 

see fit 
Please send us your old Register when you are through 

with it." 

'Tis somethin' mighty singular, no matter where we 

roam 
We've an over anxious feelin' jes to hear a word from 

home. 
'Tis a balm of consolation jes to git a bit o' news; 
It lightens up the burden so and drives away the blues. 
I guess 'at that's the reason why they said "if you 

see fit 
Please send us your old Register when you are through 

with it." 

Jes as I said a while ago, it teched a tender spot 

Jes like it will sometimes, you know, ef you want it 

to or not. 
I'm a little old an' cranky, yet the sympathetic chord 
Will vibrate jes as easy as it use to, thank the Lord! 
For the humble supplication kind o' teched me, I'll 

admit, 
When they said "Please send the Register when you 

air through with it." 

36 




Oh, Fitting Emblem of a Century. 



The First Church. 



The evening sun sinks slowly o'er the hill. 

I sit and watch the last long rays of light 
Until the lazy shadows climb the hill, 

And kiss the city water tanks goodnight. | 

The twilight softly deepens into grey. i 

An ancient church from view now disappears, j 

Whose sacred towers are going to decay — j 

Whose hallowed bells have chimed a hundred years. j 

i 
Electric lights now glimmer here and there. ] 

The College clock now tolls the evening knell, 

While soft and sweet upon the frosty air 

There comes a chime of solemn clanging bells. ^ 

'Tis service time, the church is all aglow. ' 

Belated forms now pass within the door. I 

The choir begins to sing so soft and low, j 
A hymn my mother sang in days of yore. 

But, old church, few have thought it worth the while s 

To even write one kindly word of you 
Because you look so quaint and out of style, \ 

Pride leads their minds to other ones more new. 

As for myself, I always love to look 

With pride upon your weather-beaten towers. j 

Thy history is but an open book i 

With which I spend the evening's leisure hours, \ 

8? ! 



Pond mothers for the erring ones have prayed 
In solemn tones before thy altar rail. 

There, too, baptismal hands were gently laid. 

There, too, hath stood the bride in snowy veil. 

Since you were consecrated unto God 

No human mind can ever comprehend 

How many feet your hallowed aisles have trod, 
That now within the tomb await the end. 

Oh, Sacred Edifice, to memory dear — 

Oh fitting emblem of a century, 
Today you stand without a single peer 

In Marietta's early history. 



spring. 

1 

The merry month of May is here. 

The weather's getting dry and hot; I 

While in some cool secluded spot I 

The red-nosed man now sips his beer. | 
And while he drinks behind the screens, 

His care-worn wife from day to day, 

To keep the grinning wolf away, | 

Is on the hillside hunting greens. « 

He loafs around, the lazy sot, | 

This human shark that we call man, [ 

With fishing pole and oyster can, | 

And never seems to have a thought ! 
That while he's lying in the shade 

His precious wife with hoe and spade, | 

Is digging up the garden spot. i 



When the Leaves Turn Red. 



The hazy Autumn days have come, the sweetest time 

o' year; 
The sun looks kind o' crimson through the smoky 

atmosphere; 
The echoes keep a mockin' when the fact'ry whistle 

blows, 
And the blackbirds are a flockin' to where — dear only 

knows. 
It's the time o' year that ketches me, as I have often 

said, 
When the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turn red. 

What hallowed childish fancies seem to come and go 

at will 
As we watch the sunbeams dancing and a painting all 

the hill. 
And hear the crazy cricket sing his old familiar song, 
And watch the lazy thistle-down as it floats along. 
And the katydids a chirpin' in the branches overhead 
When the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turn red. 

For all we love to see so well the golden tinted trees, 
There's something sort o' melancholy mingling with 

the breeze. 
When the peppermint and catnip, pennyroyal and all 
Are hanging on the rafters, where we keep them every 



fall; 



80 



And the cobwebs set to flying like a million silver 

threads, 
And the goldenrod is dying and the leaves turn red. 

When the time for making apple butter comes around 

once more, 
I can see it spit and sputter as I did in days of yore; 
I can hear my mother humming as the stirrer went 

around, 
And see the bees a coming as the butter simmered down. 
For the spicy boiling cider would tempt the very dead 
When the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turn red. 

The women folks are flocking to the country ev'ry day; 
You can see them every Sunday as they walk along 

this way, 
A hunting dying grasses till they're crazy as a loon, 
But you never see them passing when the daisy is in 

bloom. 
They've a sort of fascination for ev'rything that's dead 
When the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turn red. 

The turkey gobbler struts about with pugilistic air, 
And knocks the smaller turkeys out and doesn't seem 

to care, 
As he wonders with amazement at the generosity 
With which the farmer fed him till he's fat as he can be. 
Soon he'll be a different fellow in the grand Thanks- 
giving spread, 
For the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turned red. 

81 



When I think about the future and the land that "Is 

to be," 
Where the season never changes, why, it kind o' seems 

to me 
As if I wouldn't care about a living there at all 
Unless they had a month or so of hazy, lazy fall. 
For that's the time that catches me, as I have always 

said, 
When the goldenrod is yellow and the leaves turn red. 



John Anderson, My Jo Jobn. 



John Anderson, my Jo John, \ 

When in the prime of life, | 
You courted and caressed me, John, 

And took me for your wife. j 

You promised you would treat me good • 

Until the day you died, i 

But that was all a falsehood — ; 

John Anderson, you lied. ' 

When you and I were married, John, 

Of dollars we had many, j 

But ev'ry blessed nickel's gone i 

And now we haven't any. j 

You spent it all for rum, John, | 

In the long ago; 'k 

Now we both are penniless, ^ 

John Anderson, my Jo. j 

John Anderson, my Jo John, ij 

When we were first acquainted 

Your breath was like a rose, John, i 

But now 'tis badly tainted. | 

You have a stoppage in your throat, j 

Your locks are like the snow — I 

You're nothing but a common bloat, | 

John Anderson, my Jo. j 



John Anderson, my Jo John, 

We've climbed the hill together 
For more than fifty years, John, 

Thro' every kind of weather. 
I have been a faithful wife, 

As all the neighbors know. 
Washed, and kept you all your life, 

John Anderson, my Jo. 

John Anderson, my Jo John, 

When I recall the day 
That we stood up together 

Ij^ the kirk across the way. 
And see you as you was, John, 

My heart begins to glow! 
Wish you'd punch the clothes down. 

They're boiling over, Jo. 



84 



Auttuim in Two Cities. 



The russet tree is naked and bare; I 

Up in its boughs is plain to be seen i 

The home that robin and his mate built there J 

In the balmy days of early spring. . 

Buckeyes are tumbling all around, 

Dead leaves are heaped in the gutter ways. ^ 
The children's lips are a walnut brown — 

These are hints of the winter days. ! 

The North wind sweeps thro' the city park, \ 

Hurrying feet pass to and fro. J 

Here and there, thro' the coming dark, I 

Eager to sit by the warm hearth's glow. \ 



Over the river, against the hill, 

Lieth a city marble white; i 

The streets are deserted and deathly still — j 

No feet are hurrying there to-night. 

They who are slumbering over there I 

Heed but little the north wind's blast. '^ 

What care they if the streets are bare? { 

What care they if the summer's past? J 

They are but fallen leaves that lie ! 

Awaiting the dawn of eternal spring, j 

To bloom in their beauty by and by i 

Where brooklets ripple and fields are green. j 

O, dismal autumn with barren meads ] 

And flow'rs withered and songsters gone, • 

How plain you teach us the way which leads j 

Down through the vales of the Great Beyond. ^ 

85 ' 



My Friend. 



True friends are few and far between, } 

But I have one who stands by me, | 
And he is true as true can be, 

Through shadows well, as through the sheen. I 

Misfortune tended him at birth, 

For ere his eyes beheld the light i 

She breathed upon his form a blight ! 

That shadowed all his hopes of earth. \ 



He comes to visit me each day, 
And always greets me with a smile. 
And sits and chats a little while, 

To pass the lonely hours away. 

And I am always glad to hear 
The coming of his crippled feet 
And tapping cane upon the street. 

For then I know a friend is near. 

I read his mind with ease, somehow. 
For when he sits with head bowed down. 
And turns his thumbs around and round. 

There's trouble written on his brow. 

We never seem to disagree 
No matter what the trouble is; 
His views are mine and mine are his, 

So we're contented as can be. 



Life's shadows lengthen day by day; 
Its sinking sun begins to wan, 
And soon another morn will dawn 

Just o'er the narrow, untried way. 

And when life's toils and cares are o'er, 
I hope my friends and I may meet 
Where weary sounds of crippled feet 

Will ne'er be heard forevermore. 



37 



Retrospection. 



Little yellow Dandelion, herald of the spring, 
You are looking just as fine in your gold and green 
As you did in days of yore, in the long ago, 
When we plucked you by the door for your down to 
blow. 

One o'clock, two o'clock, just as we desired, 
We would blow your downy top until we were tired; 
Then we'd split your milky stems into silvery curls. 
Into garlands weaving them, little boys and girls. 

You're the first to come in spring, e're the snow is gone; 
Of all the flowers to which I cling you're the dearest 

one. 
Though you have another name, I can ne'er decline 
To love you just the very same. Yellow Dandelion. 

See these bony fingers now — all the dimples gone; 
Furrows scattered o'er my brow, life's begun to wane. 
Could I blow the hours to-day back to olden times, 
Then my head would be less gray, little Dandelion. 

I may never see you more in the coming hours 

When you dot the landscape o'er with your golden 

flowers. 
Other hands the same as mine then to you will cling. 
Little Yellow Dandelion, herald of the spring. 



What Shall It Profit? 



Misfortune from the cradle has cast her pall 
O'er the pathway of many an honest man, 

And the world rejoices to see him fall 
Rather than lend him a helping hand. 

He may be honest, kindhearted and pure, 

As it lies in one's power to be, 
The world will discard him if he chance to be poor; 

'Tis a matter of money, you see. 

'Tis a matter of mansions and terrace and lawns, 
And the cut of the clothes that he wears. 

And the banquets he gives and the style he puts on, 
It is not by the name that he bears. 

No pockets are made in the long white shroud; 

No sense of touch in a pulseless hand. 
Oh, how can you take it beyond the clouds — 

The wealth you store in the present land. 

Then what will your mansions and millions be worth. 
Thou hast ground God's poor these years to hoard? 

You will take at death what you brought at birth; 
And that will be nothing, I thank the Lord. 



89 



Sometime. 



What tho' the hillside and the plain i 

Lies ankle deep with crusty snow; j 

'Twill vanish softly, as it came, ] 

When south winds blow. j 

What tho' the sky looks cold and gray, I 

No song of birds, no scent of flowers; i 

Springtime will bring them back some day, ; 
'Mid April showers. 

What tho' at times we feel oppressed. 

And galling seems the yoke we bear, j 

We feel and know that we shall rest. 

Sometime; somewhere. ■ 

Look upward to the light, faint one, j 

If with the ransomed thou would'st sit j 
At his right hand, when life is done. 
And Grod sees fit. 



40 



Wait Not. 



Wait not until kind hands draw down f; 

The lifeless lids o'er baby eyes f 

To scatter garlands all around 1 

The casket where she calmly lies. i 

The silent lips can never speak, h 

Though lilies white and roses rare 

Be heaped against the marble cheek, i 

So little will the baby care. ^ 

'Twill be of little use to press 

A kiss upon the brow of snow, 

Or clasp the hands in fond caress, >1 

For little will the baby know. \ 

But while the darling ones are here, i 

'Tis then they need our love and care. ; 

Oh, fill each childish heart with cheer. 

And scatter sunshine everywhere. \ 



41 



Crystals of Sadness. 

The tear-drop, how calmly it speaks, 
How truthful the story it tells, 

As it moistens the care-worn cheek 

From the wound in the heart as it swells. 

Eyes that once sparkled with gladness. 
Now moistened with sorrows untold. 

Plainly tell of the heart aches and sadness 
Which the lips would forever withhold. 

It tells of the hearse with its treasure, 
Nodding its snow-white plume. 

Wending the way at its leisure, 
Teaching the lesson of gloom, 

Just a wee glimpse of the dresses, 

That is sufficient, you know; 
And only one touch of the tresses 

Causes the crystals to flow, 

Scalding the cheeks of a mother. 

As briny and bitter as gall, 
Silently chasing each other 

They teU their message to all. 

Tears both at morning and evening. 
Tears through the livelong year. 

Nothing but doubting and grieving. 
Nothing but worry and fear. 



1 ^^ J^^-'^ 




All. 


'tt» -'-,-'" 




Gray, the Dearest op them 




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B 

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<i1 



Marietta. 



No grander place can e'er be found j 

To view the old historic town 

Than from this window where I write ^ 

And watch the shadow of the hill 

f 

Steal slowly o'er the scene until J 

The day is fading into night. ( 

] 
I often look, yet never tire ] 

Of ancient church with towering spire ! 

And ivy covered wall. I 

And St. Clair's homestead o'er the way j 

And College buildings, old and gray, | 

The dearest of them all. 

Thy history we commemorate I 

On granite slab and copper plate, | 

Where'er the eye is cast. | 

And as we read thy scenes anew ' 

Pass huddled as if in review, ! 

A perfect panorama of the past. 

} 

Old City, thou art small, yet grand, I 

As here between the hills you stand, i 

A Mecca for the weary soul, ; 

A Plymouth where the Pilgrims flocked, j 

A cradle where the state was rocked, i 

A Bethlehem of old. 

43 ! 



The Stingy Man. 



Once there wuz a stingy man, with money by the peck, 
And all he lacked to be a hog wuz bristles on his neck. 
He occupied a mansion with no one but his wife, 
An' he never gave a nickel to an orphan in his life. 
He lived so high on luxuries he had rheumatic gout, 
An' the devil surely got him when his light went out. 

At breakfast, noon an' supper time he never thought 

o' grace, 
An' went to church on Sunday with a long, religious 

face. 
He couldn't hear the sermon for thinkin' of his stocks, 
An' he never put a penny in the missionary box. 
Without a bit o' jokin', I think, beyond a doubt. 
The devil must a got him when his light went out. 



44 



AdYice. 

Here's a piece of advice for you, my boy, 

Ere you enter the battle of life : 
Should you ever grow vexed on account of your sex 

Never don the attire of your wife. 

Of man's garment you should always feel proud; 

'Tis an honor, and not a disgrace. 
And, while onward you plod, you should strive to show 
God 

That his confidence wasn't misplaced. 



45 



Life's Lease. 



This life is but an oil lease, where each man may run ! 

his tower, : 

Tho' trials and adversities may gather every hour. ! 

For all we do the best we can, there's a fishin' job on , 

hand, I 

And a thousand more misfortunes ere the bit has ; 

reached the sand. j 

Still we should not be discouraged, feel down-hearted i 

or forlorn, i 

For we'll all be judged according to the way the tools ; 

are worn. ] 

The man who drills a wild-cat well is always called a i 

fool, ' 

And is never given credit if he opens up a pool, I 

But if he hits a duster, why, his friends will turn and go I 

With the old familiar adage, "I always told you so." j 

Still he should not be discouraged, there will come a ; 

brighter morn, I 

When he will be rewarded by the way his tools are worn. , 

The Oil of Fame is hard to find, its pools are very small, j 
For some it flows abundantly, for others not at all. 

There is Dewey, Schley and Hobson only run a tower I 

or so I 

When the amber-colored fluid filled their tanks to over- ' 

flow, I 

46 i 



While a hundred thousand privates must await the fu- 
ture morn 
To only be rewarded by the way the tools are worn. 

Some drill in the dusty mine, some in the scorching 

mills, 
While others build their derricks on Alaska's snowy 

hills. 
It doesn't make no difference where we locate the well. 
For nothing but eternal grit and drilling tools will tell. 
And if life's well's a failure and our hands are sore and 

torn, 
We may kindly be remembered by the way the tools 

are worn. 

For all we meet reverses and the tools are often stuck. 
We should never falter, but should still show nerve 

and pluck. 
So give the screw another twist, and hold a steady hand, 
Your bit may just be entering into the golden sand. 
What tho' your tank be empty, on the final gauging 

morn 
God will judge you kindly by the way the tools are 

worn. 



47 



When I First Tuck The Grip. 



I remember very well when I first tuck the grip, 

How th' little blisters gathered on my upper lip. 

I coughed an' sneezed an' snorted till I tho't my bones'd 

break. 
I tried an' couldn't go to sleep, nor couldn't keep awake. 
My throat wuz sore an' kankerd till I couldn't hardly 

speak. 
The chills run up an' down my back a playin' hide an' 

seek. 

We sent'n got the doctor, 'bout an hour or so he come; 
I asked him if he didn't think some hot Jamaica rum 
Was jest th' thing I needed, my head wuz hurtin' so. 
My wife she kind o' looked at him an' then he an- 
swered no. 
I'd a give the hull creation jest to had a little nip, 
Fer there's nothin' any better when a feller hes the 
grip. 

He felt my pulse, an' thumped my breast, said he, 

"you're out o' whack; 
We'll have to put a mustard plaster clean along your 

back." 
They made an onion poultice that wus bigger than my 

vest, 
An' when they got it good an' hot they slapped it on 

my chest. 

48 



They put some mustard on my feet, hot bottles at my 

hip, 
An' filled me full o' calomel, when I first tuck th' grip. 

I puffed an' sweat an' smuthered till I couldn't git my 

breath, 
But when they pulled the kivers down I tho't I'd freeze 

to death. 
I coughed until it sounded like a young one with th' 

croup. 
An' all they ever give me wuz thin pertater soup. 
I hadn't eny whisky thro' th' whole eternal trip, 
An' that wuz all I tho't about when I first tuck th' grip. 



49 



It Snows. 

"It snows," cries the bum, \ 

As he sees the snow come, j 

And he feels in his pocket for chink. 

'Tis a most bitter lot ; 

For a man to be caught j 

Such weather with nothing to drink. 1 

"It snows," cries the boy, i 

And his heart leaps with joy, , 

Till he fairly goes into a trance; j 

Then tumbles in bed j 
With a knot on his head. 

While his mamma, she half-soles his pants. j 

"It snows," cries the dude, i 

But he feels in a mood ■! 

To nestle up close to the fire. J 

He would take his best girl ' 

And go out for a whirl, j 

But he hasn't the price of the hire. j 

The coal merchant smiles '■ 

At the snow as it piles 1 

And fills every corner and crack; ; 

"This weather, I'm sure, ; 

Must be hard on the poor; \ 

It may be I can sell them some slack." j 

"I love to see snow," ) 

Said a ragged hobo, j 

As he brushed the white flakes from his coat; '\ 

"Then I seem but a child," i 

Said he as he smiled, | 

And swallowed a lump in his throat. \ 

1 

50 < 



Memoriam===(ieneYa Roney. 



There came a tiny flower, one day, 
With sunshine to our humble room, 
And scarcely bursted into bloom 
Until it drooped and passed away. 
I clasped her fondly to my breast, 
Looked up to Grod and questioned why 
That one so pure as she should die; 
Then came to me this sweet reply: 
'Tis for the best, 'tis for the best. 



61 



The Old, Old Town. 



There are no towns like the old, old town; 

You may look th' country over, 
She is brisk and alive as bees in th' hive. 

When th' blossoms are on th' clover. 
'Tis hustle and bustle th' whole year around 

With the brick and mortar flyin' ; 
We're pushin' along with a laugh an' a song, 

While the mushroom towns are dyin'. 
They call it a sleepy and dead old place, 

'Tis an old maid town they tell us, 
But it seems to me, from what I can see, 

They are only a little jealous. 
Only a little jealous, I guess. 

From th' way they're always blowin', 
But what care we, as long as we see 

The old, old town agrowin'. 
So here's th' health of th' old, old town, 

She is better late than never. 
May she multiply as th' years go by, 

And keep on forever and ever. 



Christmas. 



If all you little boys and girls 
Will come and stand around my knee 
I'll tell you how the whole thing was, 
And all about old Santa Clause, 
And why old Santa came to be. 

Some nineteen hundred years ago. 
Men folks were very bad, they say. 
They worshiped idols, I am told, 
Of brass and stone and precious gold. 
And some were made of common clay. 

The world was awful wicked then. 
And men and women folks so bad 
That God concluded He would bring, 
That we might have Him for a King, 
The only precious son He had. 

And so, one day in Bethlehem, 
Long, long ago this holy morn, 
Over the sea and far away. 
Among the cattle and the hay. 
The little baby King was born. 

And when the folks around the place 
Had heard about the royal birth, 
They one and all began to bring 
Fine presents for the baby King, 
For He was Ruler of the Earth. 

And since that very day, somehow, 
Old Santa Olaus has taken pride 
In bringing fancy books and toys 
To all the little girls and boys. 
Each year at merry Christmas tide. 

53 



Jaflttary 1st, '98. 



Oh, January First, as thou art almost here, 
We await the chiming of thy advent bells; 
Not knowing what thou hast for us this year, 
Each poor heart swells. 

We thank thee, though, that we cannot see 
What is awaiting us down life's road; 
Too weary and faint we would only be 
To bear the load. 

We do not wish to scan thy coming hours 
Tilleach new day to us is born, 
For if we could, we'd gather all the flowers 
And leave the thorns. 

Grrant us Thy presence, Lord, we need Thee so 
To guide us through the untried year; 
'Twill be such satisfaction to know 
That Thou art near. 

So, mete our portion out to us each day, 
As in our turn we come; 
Though it be joy or sadness, we will say, 
Thy will be done. 



54 




There She Goes. 



The Ferry Boat. 



Listen to the ferryboat, 

All the live long day. 
See her as she proudly floats 

O'er the water way. 
Here she comes, and there she goes, 

Now at Williamstown; 
See, she puffs, now she blows, 

There, she turns around. 

Ever going to and fro 

Through the storms that gather, 
Through the rain and through the snow, 

Every kind of weather. 
See the throng of eager men 

Waiting on the bank. 
Anxious to get home again 

From the drill and tank. 

From early dawn 'till eventide, 

Through the dreary year, 
Longing for the other side 

And the friends so dear; 
Thus we linger on the shore 

Of life's fretful sea, 
Waiting to be feriied o'er 

To eternity. 



55 



From the Cradle to the Grave. 



All must enter in the strife; 

All must toil and slave 
In the mystic march of life, 

From the cradle to the grave. 

Little dimpled baby hands 
Scarcely feel the first caress 

Till they cross the border lands 
For eternal rest. 

Some have their allotted time 
Of three score years and ten, 

Daily worshipped at the shrine; 
Faithful to the end. 

Many feet have weary grown 
Of the thorns upon the way; 

Many hearts have joy unknown, 
Vainly trusting day by day. 

Every pain is but a knife 

Cutting little nicks, you know, 

In the counting stick of life. 
As we onward go. 

When we pass the silent valley 

Into vast eternity. 
He'll reward us by the tally 

That was cut out for you and me. 

Though the way seems dark and dreary. 

Still be strong and brave; 
Then the feet will grow less weary 

From the cradle to the grave. 

56 



June. 

Oh, there ain't no signal service 

That is any better sign 
Of when the weather will be gloomy 

Or the sun agoin' to shine, 
Or when it will turn colder. 

Or when it's goin' to rain. 
As when your legs are achin' 

With an old rheumatic pain. 

There's a time a feller wishes 

That he never had been born. 
When his knees are soakin' muddy 

Gettin' down to shuck th' corn. 
And his bones, they set to achin' — 

Till he hardly can refrain 
From asayin' something naughty 

When he knows it's goin' to rain. 

There ain't no use athinkin' 

Of the cattle in the shed, 
Or the horses in the stable. 

And the hogs that ain't been fed — 
When a feller's back's ahurtin' 

An' his legs refuse to walk; 
Then there ain't no use o' thinkin' 

Of attendin' to the stock. 

57 



When the chickens oil their feathers 

And the sun is settin' red, 
An' the rooster hoop-de-doodles 

After fly in' up to bed; 
Then there ain't no use o' thinkin' 

Of endurin' all the pain, 
When the rheumatism's hurtin' 

An' you know it's goin' to rain. 

No sweeter time of year to live, 

So Whitcombe Riley thought, 
Than when the frost was on the pumpkins, 

And the fodder's in the shock. 
If he'd a had rheumatics. 

He'd have changed the time, I ween, 
To when the tater bugs are feastin' 

On the farmers' paris green. 

Then the days are nice and balmy 

And the weather warm and dry, 
And the bees are on the clover 

And the blossoms on the rye. 
Oh, give to me the June-time 

With the happy, rosy morn. 
When the bug is on the taters 

And the dew is on the corn. 



Phantom Ships. 



Thoughts are little ships that go 
Flitting ever to and fro 

On life's raging main; 
When the tempest's swelling high, 
Then we see them sailing by 

With their freight of pain. 

Even in the midnight slumbers 
They will pass in countless numbers 

Thick as heaven's stars; 
With their snowy wings unfurled 
Sailing all around the world, 

Seeking pleasure's bowers. 

When the ships come o'er the sea 
From the land that "is to be," 

How we shade our eyes, 
Looking for the loved ones dear 
As they one by one draw near 

To the land of sighs. 

Some sail in from baby-land, 
Somewhere on the crystal strand, 

When the tide is low, 
Bringing curly looks of gold 
And dimpled cheeks we knew of old, 

In the long ago. 

From the cradle to the tomb. 
Through the sunshine and the gloom, 

On life's foamy crest, 
Sail they till the storm is past. 
When the anchor will be cast 

Near the isle of rest. 

59 



Passiflg Scenes. 



We sit and pass the time away 

And watch the scenes upon the street, 

And listen to the tramping feet 
That throng the place from day to day. 
We scan each face that passes by, 

From babyhood to ripe old age; 

They are to us an open page 
Whereon we read each smile and sigh. 

While some are garbed in gaudy dress 

With jewels of the rarest kind, 

Another follows close behind 
With scarce to hide his nakedness. 
For some the fairest flowers grow 

In clusters all along life's way; 

Just why it is we cannot say; 
We only know that it is so. 

A pleasure carriage whirls along ' 

With cracking whip, and laughter gay; i 

But ere its sound has died away j 

'Tis followed by a mournful throng. ' 

'Twas ever thus in bygone years; \ 

'Twill ever be till end of time. ; 

The funeral knell, the wedding chime ^ 

Peal out at once upon our ears. | 

60 



Why some should never know of strife 
And others never feel but pain, 
We are unable to explain; 

We only know that such is life. 

Tho' strange the world to us appears, 
We soon shall see with clearer eyes 
All the wherefores and the whys 

Beyond this vale of toil and tears. 



61 



Yotfre Not Dead Yet. 



If you chance meet a feller 

With a little jag, 
Do not deal too harshly with him, 

Take his hand'n wag. 
Speak to him in words o' kindness, 

Harsh ones never pay, 
Tell him of his downward journey 

And his errin' way. 
Fools air not th' only drinkers, 

Wise men tipple too. 
Men with college educations, 

Jest as smart as you. 
And remember what I tell you. 

Never once forget, 
For, to err is only human, 

And 
you're 
not 
dead 
yet. 

Bear ye one another's burdens, 

Sech wus th' command. 
If you are your brother's keeper. 

Lend a helpin' hand. 
For the sake of little children, 

Plead with him again. 
Drunkards once reformed will oft'n 

Make th' best o' men. 
Everybody has their failin's; 

You have some, no doubt, 



Which would turn your cheeks a crimson 

If we found'm out. 
So, remember what I tell you, 

Never once forget, 
For, to err is only human. 

And 
you're 
not 
dead 
yet. 

Don't annoy him with yer nonsense, 

All yer tracts 'n creeds 
Never, never will redeem him, 

'Tisn't what he needs. 
Whisper words 'o consolation, 

That'll cheer him up, 
And encourage him to battle 

With th' tempt'n' cup. 
Tho' he seems to you unsightly 

In his tattered clothes. 
Do not feel yerself above him, 

Nor turn up yer nose. 
For remember what I tell you. 

Never once forget, 
For, to err is only human. 

And 
you're 
not 
dead 
yet. 



Circumstances Alter Cases. 



Some folks are alway harpen 'bout 

Th' place where they wuz born, j 

And 'bout the little winder \ 

Where th' sun peeped in at morn, 
And how they'd like to wander back ; 

And see th' place once more, 
And roam th' hills and hollers ^ 

Ez they did in days of yore. j 

They ken do it ef they want to, j 

And stay there ef they choose, ] 

But ez fer me agoin' back, 1 

I'd ruther be excused. I 



Th' vines, no doubt, are climen o'er 

Th' milk-house by th' spring. 
Th' clover fields are jest ez sweet, 

The birds, perhaps still sing. 
But still there's somethin' lackin' 

That wuz dearer far than all. 
We kind o' miss th' faces that 

Have passed beyond recall. 
They ken visit ef they want to, 

And see it ef they choose, 
But ez fer me agoin' back, 

I'd ruther be excused. 



64 



It's well enougli to talk about 

Th' things that used to be, 
Th' sun, fer instance, peepin' in 

Wuz very nice to see; 
But it don't cut eny figer 

Fer to tell of so and so, 
They can't bring back th' faces 

That childhood use to know. 
So, let them go and visit home. 

And see it ef they choose, 
But ez fer me agoin' back, 

I'd ruther be excused. 

Ef all the folks wuz livin' 

As they waz in long ago, 
I wouldn't mind to see th' place 

And stay a month er so, 
But circumstances alter cases. 

So th' school book said. 
And since I cannot see th' faces 

Of th' friends now dead, 
Let other people visit home 

And see it ef they choose, 
But ez fer me agoin back, 

I'd ruther be excused. 



65 



Her Letters. 



I've kept her letters all on file, 
Thro' all the years from long ago. 
I've guarded them, for well I know 

It will be soothing afterwhile 

When my boon bosom friends have flown 
And I am wrinkled, old and gray, 
To take them down some darkened day 

And ponder o'er them all alone. 

With age they've turned a safPron hue, 
And yet to them I fondly cling 
Because they always quickly bring 

A sunny face my boyhood knew. 

They bring her back — so close to me 
I feel the radiance when she smiled 
Just as I did when but a child — 

And there I stand beside her knee. 

And so with them I keep her smile — 
The joy they bring repays the care; 
I treasure them as jewels rare. 

For, in the gloaming afterwhile 

When my boon bosom friends have flown 
And I am feeble, dour and gray, 
I'll take them down each darkened day 

To ponder o'er them all alone. 



66 



To The Bigh School Cadets. 



On last Decoration Day, 
As I watched you march away, 
In your neat cut suits of gray, 
These are thoughts that came to me: 
"We must lean some day on thee." 

Defenders of the stripes and stars, 
With silvery heads and battle scars, 
Daily pass beyond life's bars. 
Should on you their harness fall, 
Answer, "Ready to the call." 

A general, no doubt, today, 
Is on the campus ground at play; 
Just who it is we cannot say. 
But, for fear it might be you. 
Be ye loyal, brave and true. 

Happy, youthful school-boy band! 
Some of you, perhaps, may stand 
On the bridge, and give command 
On some stately man-of-war, 
Ere your unseen life is o'er. 

O, ye rising generation! 
Drain the fount of education; 
For, remember this dear nation 
And the stripes with field of blue 
Will depend some day on you, 

67 



Old Time Joys. 



How would you like to forsake th' street 
An' steal out in th' woods somewhere, 
Miles from the crowded thoroughfare. 
An' rest awhile from the dust an' heat, 
Far from the rattling trains an' bells, 
The screaming whistle an' noisy mills, 
'Way out yonder in the quiet dells, 
An' stay all summer among th' hills? 

Or spend a day with a fishin' pole 
An' lots o' chubs in th' minnow box, 
Down where th' waters splashes th' rocks. 
Pure and white as a seraph's soul, 
'Way down yonder by the shady pool. 
An' bury your feet in the moistened sand, 
Where the cat-tails nod an' th' air is cool, 
Oh! my brother, wouldn't that be grand? 

Never again, oh, brother mine. 

Shall such pleasures as those be ours. 

We can only yearn for the fields an' flowers. 

The shining chubs an' the hook an' line. 

We are old men now with forms bent low. 

Yet we love to dream of the childhood joys, 

Back in the years of the long ago 

When you and I were but chunks of boys. 

68 




At the Little Country Station. 



Out Along The T. & 0. 



THOUGHTS GLEANED AT THE DEPOT LUNCH COUNTER. i 

Whatever else we may forget, J 

Thoughts of home still linger yet, i 

Ever in the crowded brain, ^ •: 

Alluring it to us again; { 

That is just the reason why | 

I am going, by and by, | 

For a week or two of rest f 

In the place I loved the best, ^ 

Where the zephyr breezes blow, i 

Out along the T. & O. \'\ 

How I long to romp again j 

Down the clover-girted lane, ] 

Past th' tangled berry patch, j 

Where th' Bob- whites used to hatch: :! 

Why, it seems to me, somehow, \ 
I can hear him calling now, 
Whistling with aU his might 
For the wayward Mrs. White, 

When the sun is sinking low | 

Out along the T. & O. | 

X. 

Thoughts of home, and then one feels jl 

Sudden jarring of the wheels ,,^| 

At the little country station, j 
Swarming thick with dear relation. 



! 



We imagine we can take 
Hold of loving hands and shake 
Till we feel the warm caress 
Of the lips that used to press 
To our own so long ago, 
Out along the T. & O. 

After while and I will pack 

My old duds and saunter back, 

Where the gauze-winged katydids 

An' crickets by the myriads 

Are singing where th' grape vines creep, 

Lulling drooping eyes to sleep, 

Far beyond this city life 

An' the turmoil and the strife. 

With the friends I used to know 

Out along the T. & O. 



70 



The Man With the Bod. 



When I think uv Edwin Markham, an' his feller with 
th* hoe, 

There's a question that arises; I would really like to 
know 

How he'd ever find a market for th' taters and th' wheat 

Ef it wasn't fer th' dollars uv th' toilers uv th' street. 

I believe in givin' credit to th' feller who deserves; 

But th' hayseed, with his whiskers full of jelly an' pre- 
serves, 

Would starve to death, b' thunder, from the tillin' uv 
the sod 

Ef it wasn't fer th' feller who manipulates th' hod. 

I've a heap o' admiration fer th' man who plows an' sows 
An' plants th' taters an' th' corn, an' chops th' weeds 

an' hoes. 
But I'd like to call attention fer a moment, ef you 

please. 
To th' way he spends th' winter months in lux'ry an' 

ease, 
While th' toilers uv th' city, in th' never endin' strife, 
Dassent stop a blessed minit through their whole en- 

durin' life. 
You kin talk about th' farmer. Sir, an' cheer him up, 

an' laud, 
But he really isn't in it with th' bearer uv the hod. 

71 



When the carpenter wuz preaohin' on the shores uv 

Gallilee 
The people flocked about him jes to see what they 

could see ; 
But they didn't understand Him — an' th' kind o' man 

he wuz — 
It wuz jest a case o' ignorance I guess, wuz bout the 

cause. 
So do not be unmindful of this meek an' lowly soul 
Who bravely fills his mission as he staggers to th' goal; 
Tho' a common beast of burden, he's an image of His 

God, 
A builder of th' builders — humble bearer of th' hod. 



73 



Only Waiting. 



Did you ever have a feelin' come a creepin' and a stealin' 
Through your whole entire anatomy, you couldn't 
understand; 
An' you'd ketch yourself embracin' some ole sweetheart 
or relation, 
Who had passed beyond the river to th' hallelujah 
land? 

An' you ask yourself "what is it?" — Why, 'tis jest an 
angel's visit, 
For they always come to cheer us when th' spirit's 
kind o' low. 
We can tell when they are comin', when we ketch our- 
selfs a hummin' 
All th' ole familiar lullabys we knew so long ago. 

Did you ever sit an' ponder o'er th' friends now over 
yonder. 
An' you somehow kind o' hankered, for th' olden, 
golden years? 
An' you felt a constant yearnin', till your very soul wus 
burnin'. 
An' th' past seemed kind o' misty, lookin' backerd 
thro' th' tears. 

Yes, we're aged, an' bald an' wrinkled, and our locks 
with gray are sprinkled. 
Yet there's better times a comin' that will be sur- 
prisin' grand; 
We shall clasp, some day, I reckon, phantom hands that 
sweetly becon 
From th' fairy, airy mansions of th' hallelujah land. 

73 



When Fall Comes Back. 



When fall comes back an' apples pick'd; 
Th' corn all shuck'd an' fodder rick'd, 
An' taters dug an' seedens through. 
There's little else but chores to do, 
An' gether up th' rakes an' hoes, 
An' hang 'em on th' jice in rows, 
Where nails are driven for everything 
We're likely not t' need till spring. 
When fall comes back. 

When fall comes back, how sad th' words, 
Farewell t' flowers, good-bye t' birds; 
For down along th' garden walks. 
Where bloomed the blushen hollyhocks 
An' mornin' glories, white and red, 
Their leaves lie scattered, brown an' dead. 
Look where you will, most any place. 
Death seems t' stare us in th' face 
When fall comes back. 

When fall comes back with weather drear, 

It's kind o' lonesome livin' here, 

Especially in th' ev'ntide, 

I set here drowsin', droopy-eyed, 

An' listen to th' cricket sing 

His doleful song, it seems t' bring 

Fond memories back again to me. 

An' faces from Eternity, 

When fall comes back. 

U 



When fall comes back with lowerin clouds, 

An heavy mist th' Earth enshrouds, 

It teaches us a lesson grand 

That all may read an' understand — 

To live again, all things must die; 

I guess that is th' reason why, 

That, in his wisdom, God has willed 

All Nature's laws to be fulfilled 

When fall comes back. 



75 



Retrospection. 



I remember well the place where I was born, 

The scraggy hills that towered above the stream, 
And every nook in which I spent life's happy morn 

Comes back to me as but a happy dream. 
I'd like to see the place again, somehow, 

If everything was like it used to be; 
But many years have passed since then and now, 

And everyone would seem so strange to me. 

I remember the little baker shop 

Where oft I stood and looked with anxious eyes, 
When on my way to school each morn I'd stop 

And long to taste the ginger bread and pies. 
I'd count the cakes, and count them o'er again, 

With flattened nose against the window pane, 
And life to-day seems just the same as then, 

My counting and my yearning is in vain. 

I'd like to see old uncle Cyrus Black, 

Who used to drive the old gray horse to town, 
And always brought some apples in a sack 

To treat the boys who chanced to be around. 
He always smiled and spoke to me so kind, 

I never shall forget the dear old soul, 
Whate'er his load he never whipped behind, 

But let me sit astride the coupling pole. 

76 



I often think of little Johnnie Sowers, 

The Ernest boys, and curly Dan Maloy, 
Who played with me in childhood's happy hours 

Long, long ago when I was but a boy. 
I'd like to see them all again, somehow. 

If everything was like it used to be, 
But many years have passed since then and now, 

And some, no doubt, are in eternity. 



7f 



If I Could Write. 



If I could write as poets write, - 

I'd tell about an angel band j 

That sang a hymn one winter's night, | 

Of "Peace on earth, good will to man," ■ 

And all about the shepherds' fear i 

When first the choir began to sing j 
"Be not afraid — be of good cheer. 

Glad tidings of great joy we bring." \ 

I'd tell about our dear Christ's birth j 

And why the Savior come to be, ; 

And of His trials here on earth, ] 

From Bethlehem to Calvary — ' 

I'd never lay the pen aside i 

Till every boy and girl would know j 

Just why we have a Christmas tide, ] 

And Santa Claus with face aglow, ' 

Who comes each year with glad surprise, j 

With bats and balls and fancy sleds j 

And baby dolls with blinking eyes 5 

And frizzled bangs and curly heads — ] 

And many other childish toys / 

I'd like to tell about to-night, | 

To fill each anxious heart with joy — ■ 

If I could write as poets write. ; 



78 ;i 

I) 



Dear Old Home. 



AFTER A VISIT TO THE OHIO PENITENTIARY. 

Dear old home, O, place divine, 
Where the morning glories twine 
Round thy eaves in leafy June, 
Where the sparrows sweetly croon: 
Would that I had ever stayed 
'Neath thy roof, and never strayed 
From the shady, cool retreats 
To the crowded city streets, 
Far from mother's love and care, 
Where the tempter's luring snare 
Led me on and on and on 
Till all self respect was gone. 

Just a little while, and then 
I will homeward turn again, 
Through the guarded gate that locks 
From my feet the grassy walks 
Leading 'neath the orchard trees, 
Swarming wild with honey bees. 
How I'll quaff the sweet perfume 
Oozing from the apple bloom, 
And drink deep the balmy air, 
Wafting o'er the meadows, where 
Once I roamed a little child, 
Holy, pure and undefiled. 

79 



When the world is wrapped in sleep 
And the shadows round me creep, 
Shackle chains with iron jaws 
Must succomb to Nature's laws 
When the soul desires to stray 
O'er the fields and far away. 
Often in the silent night, 
Fleet and swift as swallow flight, 
Past the watchful sentinels, 
Over hills and down the dells, 
Nightly in my dreams I roam 
Back to you again, old home. 

Just a little while, and then 
I'll return, old home, again. 
Where at rosy eventide 
Mother's standing, shaded-eyed. 
Peering down the distant lane 
For a glimpse of me again. 
Ah, the sleepless, dreary years, 
Sorrowing, regrets and tears 
Will be over by and by 
When together she and I 
Stand in fond embrace once more, 
Long in parting at the door. 



80 



When th' Gas Plays Oat. 



I've figered and I've figured but I can't make out at all 

'Bout how they read a meter thro' a solid cellar wall. 

When th' meter's in th' cellar and th' door is bolted fast 

I can't make out exactly how they figer up th' gas. 

But there's one thing mighty certain, if we burn the 
gas er not, 

We have to pay 'em jest the same, so make 'er good 
an' hot; 

For monopolies 'ill skin us, beyond a bit o' doubt, 

And the coal man 'ill git us when th' gas plays out. 

I've thought th' whole thing over and I'm fully satisfied 

That th' man who reads th' meters is a little tech cross- 
eyed; 

Fer we went away this summer, and wuz gone a month 
er more, 

But the figers on th' postal card wuz like th' one before. 

So I've come to th' conclusion that there ain't no use 
to fuss 

Or argie with th' millionaires, monopolies an' trusts; 

There determined fer to skin us, beyond a bit o' doubt. 

And the coal man 'ill get us when the gas plays out. 



81 



Old Times. 

There are no days like the good old days of the Christ- 
mas long ago, 

When Santa would come with trumpet and drum, and 
the hills were mantled in snow. 

I remember well how we bounced down stairs ere the 
Holy day had dawned ; 

But what a surprise to our childish eyes to find he had 
come and gone. 

We were children then in our innocence, but now we 
are old, old men, 

Yet once in a while, with a tear and a smile, we think 
of those times again. 

There are no girls like the old time girls we use to 

know, God love 'em; 
They were plump and neat, and pure and sweet as the 

flowers that grow above 'em. 
We loved 'em, too, with a love that was true, that time 

nor death can sever; 
Our hearts still yearn and the sparks still burn, and 

will forever and ever. 
We are aged and wrinkled with years of care, deserted 

and all alone. 
But the hands that becken, some day, I reckon, we shall 

fondly hold in our own. 



There are no songs like the old time songs and the 

sweet old lullabys 
Our mothers sung when the soft clouds hung in the 

golden sunset skies; 
When the world grew dark and our feet were tired from 

frolic and childish play, 
It was sweet to rest on a mother's breast at close of the 

long, long day. 
We are old men now, yet we feel, somehow, we would 

gladly exchange our gold 
For one sweet strain from the lips again, we pressed in 

the days of old. 



When There's Ice Friz io the Basin. 



When th' fog is hangin' heavy o'er th' river and th' rills, 
And nothing left astickin' out but West Verginie hills, 
And the dust and heat is over and the summer season's 

past, 
Then I'd like t' hoop and holler if I tho't I on'y dast; 
For there's somethin' sort o' fascinatin' 'bout the time 

o' year 
When there's ice friz in th' basin and the frosty nights 

is here. 

When the leaves are turnin' speckled like and sailin' 

all around, 
And the buckeyes keep a rappen and a tappen on the 

ground ; 
When the sun is in a circle and the air is full o' haze. 
It takes a feller back again to good ole happy days; 
Then the air is kind o' bracin' and the heart is full o' 

cheer, 
When there's ice friz in the basin and the frosty nights 

is here. 

When there's ice friz in the basin 'bout as thick as 

window pane. 
Old Deacon Johnson's turnip patch comes back to me 

again, 
And all the ragged rowdies my boyhood used to know, 
Who foraged in the turnip patch, some thirty years ago ; 
And a thousand other memories come back to me each 

year. 
When there's ice friz in the basin and the frosty nights 

is here. 

84 



io the Afterwhile. 



I never liked a pessimist, growlin' day and night, 
Always lookin' out fer shadders, missin' all tli' light; 
Never liked that mode of livin' — jBnd it doesn't pay, 
Ort to take what heaven sends us, not a word t' say. 
Ef our plans don't work exactly ez we think they should 
Never pay a bit attenshun, it's only for our good. 
So in times o' tears an' troubles, jest look up and smile, 
You will understand the meanin' in the afterwhile. 

What's the use t' fret and worry till your hair is gray, 
'Cause th' things you calculated didn't come your way? 
Never pays to growl and grumble, er t' raise a fuss; 
Better thank th' Great Creator 'cause it wusent wuss. 
When misfortunes overtake us, best fer you and me 
If our brains could understand it an' our eyes could see; 
So jest wait and be contented as a little chile, 
You will understand the meanin' in th' afterwhile. 

Take the world jest as you find it, that's the better plan, 
And in hours of tribulation do the best you can. 
Everybody hez their troubles, very few hev none, 
So, you see, in earthly trials you ain't all alone. 
Tho' th' cradle's in th' garret, and a tiny chair, 
'Sides a dozen other trinkets stowed away somewhere, 
Try and make yourself contented and be reconciled. 
You will understand the meanin' in the afterwhile. 

85 



To Isaac and Rebecca Williams. 



'Neath a little grassy mound, 

Close beside the ancient town, 
They are sleeping now, those grand old pioneers. 

They are resting in content 

From a life so nobly spent. 
And their memory grows dearer with the years. 

Many years have passed away 

Many times the flowers of May 
Have bloomed around the knoll where now they sleep; 

And the bread of time they cast 

On life's waters in the past 
Is coming back — Grod's promises to keep. 

Now the day is near at hand 
When the monument so grand 

We will decorate the hallowed mound above, 
For in history or fame 
You will find no dearer name 

Than the one we West Virginians love. 



Deal Justly. 



REUNION OF 77 AT STOCKPORT, OCT. 9tH, '97. 

I've been thinking of late of a question, 

And one that is hard to define; 
Why the soldiers cannot all be pensioned 

When they are now in years of decline? 

Wasn't one man as good as another, 

If he manfully battled the foe, 
Though a brigadier general or private? 

Is a question I'd like to know. 

And why is an officer's widow 

Entitled to any more pay 
Than the wife of a private soldier? — 

It has puzzled me many a day. 

Wasn't her husband as dear to her, 

And wasn't the parting the same. 
When he waved good-bye as he marched away 

Never to return again? 

Thirty odd times have the flowers bloomed 

Since shoulder to shoulder they marched away; 

Now weary of waiting, they seek the tomb, 
Never receiving their pay. 

What is a pension to clay, cold hands, 

Now pulseless and free from pain? 
For prayers were useless in their just demands 

For the pension that never came. 

87 



Be honest, deal justly with all, 

Regardless of title or rank; 
No odds where the laurels may fall, 

Grive honor, give credit; give thanks. 

There's a feeling I always shall cherish 
For the hero that offered his blood 

That the stars and the stripes should not perish 
That's the private that tramped in the mud. 



The Last Tribute of love. 



Wbile scanning the paper with earnest care, 

Eager to hear of the Spanish fleet, 
There comes a rattling on the air 

Of a rub-a-dub-dub and tramping feet. 
As a fellow's will, my heart beat high 

As I went to the windows, where I could see 
The ocean of flowers drifting by 

Under the banner of Liberty. 

Close in the wake of the stripes and stars 

Came the boys' drum corps with manly tread; 
Then the High School Cadets and the G. A. K. 

With tributes of love for the cherished dead. 
Then came the little ones back in the rear 

With garlands of roses and lilies between. 
Decking the heaps of earth so dear, 

Keeping their memory fresh and green„ 

I solemnly gazed as they marched away 

And I felt a thrill that I cannot explain, 
And I wondered if some kind hand would lay 

A wreath of flowers on the sunken Maine. 
For many a soul lies slumbering there. 

Fresh in the Nation's memory yet, 
And many a mother kneels in prayer 

And many a sweetheart's eyes are wet. 



After the Bitter Comes the Sweet 



Down in the valley under the hill, 
Lieth a river calm and still, 
Grentle and meek as a new-born lamb, 
Softly rippling over the dam. 
One to see it would never suppose 
That it was the bit of a creek that rose 
Over the banks and into the town, 
Driving us up to the higher ground. 
But it is the very identical stream, 
Kunning as smooth as a summer's dream, 
Teaching a lesson we all should heed, 
Whate'er our station, whate'er our creed, 
As it whispers back from its low retreat, 
"After the bitter comes the sweet." 

And just as the river is passing by. 

So we are drifting, you and I, 

Down through the valley into the sea, 

Out on the tides of eternity, 

Where the ships lie rocking to and fro 

With sails as white as the driven snow. 

And up from the harbor on the hill 

Lieth a city white and still, 

Wherp waters never o'erflow the street; 

So, after the bitter comes the sweet. 



90 




The Old Wooden Gates are Always Ajar. 



Restingyille. 



Over a river, upon a hill 

Of a valley not far away 
Stands the hamlet of Restingville, 

Where wanderers go every day, 
And none are debarred from the beautiful streets, 

We are welcome to enter at will, 
And linger awhile where the flowers are sweet 
And the grass is soft to our tender feet — 

In the hamlet of Restingville. 

The old wooden gates are always ajar, 

And many a road leads in. 
And many a traveler comes from afar 

To rest from the noise and din, 
Forsaking the world for the dear old town 

Where everything is so still. 
And trials and troubles are all laid down 
And nothing but slumber the whole year around, 

In the hamlet of Restingville. 

Some of the mansions are tall and grand 

And some are of granite gray, 
While others are made of the coarsest sand 

And some are of common clay. 
And some of the houses are crumbling low 

In the village upon the hill. 
But somehow or other we love them so. 
And our eyes grow wet and we long to go 

For a slumber in Restingville. 

91 



The Haioe. 



Once the pride of the navy, 

Now a thing of the past. 

Only a wreck in the harbor, 

Only a piece of mast. 

Pierced is the heart of a nation, 

Wounded to the very core 

For the gallant Main and her martyred crew 

Of Yankee boys in coats of blue 

Who sank to rise no more. 

Only the victim of Weyler 
Who hungers and thirsts for blood. 
Only the form of a sailor 
Covered with slime and mud. 
Bury him not in Havana soil — 
It isn't fit for a freeman's grave; 
Bring him back to the land of God 
And bury him under his native sod. 
In the home of the free and brave. 

The dastardly deed of a coward. 

Who hadn't the valor to fight. 

Only the work of a villain, 

Only a thief in the night. 

Hurt is the pride of the nation — 

How bitter the sting of the crime; 

But we will avenge the wrong some day 

In the true American way, 

In God's own time. 



Down with the diver into the wreck, 
Never abandon the gruesome task 
Till he signals back to the upper deck 
"Hoist away, we have found the last." 
Then bury him not in Havana soil. 
Cover him not with the blood-stained earth ; 
But bring him back to the land of God, 
Where he can rest 'neath the pure sweet sod 
Of his home and his place of birth. 



Modem Hypocrisy. 



"Good morning, Mrs. Neighborly, 

I thought I'd just drop in 
To find out who those people are 

That live with widow Flinn. 
Why, don't you know, I never knew 

That they were there before. 
Until I saw old man MoGrew 

Tack crape upon the door," '^ 

\ 

"Well, I declare! Miss Slendersoul, i 

And hain't you really seen | 

That woman at our Sunday School? ] 

She wears that old satine. j 

She has an old 'new market' coat 

That strikes her 'bout the shin; i 

I thought I'd burst right out and laugh 

When she came walking in. 

"The baby that she had with her 1 

At church last Sunday night j 

Must have been the one that died, j 

You know the crepe is white. ' 

And then the notice on the hall | 

Said, 'infant daughter Mary' — ] 

I hadn't time to read it all, '\ 

For I was in a hurry. 

94 ] 



"I heard they came from Canaansville, 

I think their name is Brooks. 
Her husband labors at the mill 

Where John is keeping books. 
Of course, its bad enough for them 

That they have lost their child, j 

But they must put their trust in Him, 

And still be reconciled." 1 

"Well, good-day, Mrs. Neighborly, j 

Come over when you can ' 

And see the cake I baked to-day, ; 

I think it's simply grand. ; 

I baked it for the parson's wife — j 

'Tis her birthday, you see — 

'Tis lettered with the words so nice, j 

'For sweet charity.' " 

Miss Slendersoul had scarcely left; j 

Her neighbor closed the door l 
And went to singing to herself 

A hymn she loved of yore — i 

"A charge to keep I have, [ 

A God to glorify, j 

A never dying soul to save, .1 

And fit it for the sky." 



96 



When We Lie Down. 



When we lie down in the mother earth, 

Whate'er our station it matters not, 
Whether we came of royal birth, 

Or born 'neath the thatch of a peasant's cot, 
Millionaire, pauper, beggar and king. 

Landlord and tenant, master and slave. 
All must succumb to the terrible sting. 

And equally share in the gloom of the grave. 

Why should we envy the fortunes of others, 

Gold cannot enter the tomb, I am sure. 
Equally born, we are simply brothers, 

O! why should the wealthy look down on the poor? 
When we lie down in the flower-strewn sod, 

'Twill count but for little the wealthy may own; 
We will all be the same in the eyes of God, 

Whether we came from a cottage or throne. 

We should remember that we are but mortals. 

Born like the coral, to live but a day. 
Naught but the spirit can enter the portals 

When all that is earthly has faded away. 
The lord in the castle, the poor in the hovel. 

The trowel, the scepter, the helmet and crown 
Lose all distinction and come to one level, 

When we lie down, when we lie down. 

96 



When Spring Comes Back. 



When spring comes back I seem t' hear 

Th' cowbells tinkle soft an' clear, 

An' with th' bells it kind o' brings 

Along with it ten thousand things 

That makes me dream these daylight dreams 

Till everything I think jes seems 

Ez natural an' jes ez plain 

Ez if I wuz a child again, 

When spring comes back. 

When spring comes back I kind o' wish 

That I could go again an' fish 

Along th' creek, jes ez I did 

When I was but a ragged kid; 

An' set upon th' rocks agin 

An' let my legs jes dangle in 

Th' water ez it bubbles by 

Until I'd get my satisfy, 

When spring comes back. 

When spring comes back, an' appletrees 

Are jes alive with honeybees. 

An' birds, with straws and strings, commence 

T' build along th' orchard fence, 

An' south wind coaxes back the grass 

An' blossoms on th' sassafras; 

Then everything smells sweet an' nice 

An' this ole world's a paradise. 

When spring comes back. 

97 



When spring comes back with shine an' smiles, 
Then sugar trees are full o' spiles; 
An' crows an' blackbirds seem t' come 
From every part o' Christendom; 
An' dandelions, like golden stars. 
Stretch out beyond th' pasture bars; 
An' ivy vines peep thro' th' wall 
Jes ez th' did when I wqz small. 

When spring comes back. 

When spring comes back with skies o' blue 
An' streaks o' sunshine streaming thro' 
Th' lattice at th' kitchen door. 
An' stretches clear across th' floor 
An' tints our silvery hair with gold; 
Then we forget that we are old — 
But ah, these dreams are all in vain, 
For we can ne'er go back again, 

'Cause Spring comes back. 



98 



Rose lill School. 



I often think with pleasure of the little country school, 
And when we missed our lessons how the teacher 
made us dance; 
I remember how he rapped us o'er the knuckles with 
his rule, 
And what delight he seemed to take in dusting out 
our pants. 

I can see the sloppy corner, where the water bucket 
stood, 
And the rusty bottom tin-cup, sitting on the window- 
sill, 
Where the breeze came in at summer-time, smelling 
mighty good 
With fragrance from the clover blossoms out along 
the hill. 

What became of all the Grlens, can anybody tell? 

I scarce remember all of them, it's been so long ago. 
There was Nick and Nat, Tom and Jack, Ned and little 
Nell, 
And Het and Mag, whose cheeks were red as roses in 
the snow. 

Joe Taylor went to Washington; George Schrader's in 
the West; 
The last I heard of Dobbins he was down in Mexico. 



Jarve Mathews and his brother John are numbered 
with the blest, 
And what became of Dilley Crage, nobody seems to 
know. 

I'd like to see the place again, and all the happy throng 
Who used to play at plumps for knucks, and two old 
cat with me; 
But that, you know, is all in vain, my playmates all are 
gone. 
And I have naught to ponder o'er but treasured 
memory. 



100 



Dncle Sam. ! 



Who is this Uncle Sam, pa, s 

Who looks so lank and thin, ; 

And has a sort o' lantern jaw ^ 
And whiskers on his chin? 

He wears such funny striped clothes j 

And looks so cute and sly, \ 

And holds his finger on his nose ' 

And winks his tother eye. i 

\ 

I'll tell you who he is, my son, j 

And of his royal birth. J 

He's related to George Washington, \ 

The greatest man on earth. I 

He was born of Yankee parents, j 

Many years gone by, ;j 

In a place called Philadelphia, j 

On the fourth day of July. i; 



Why, he's the man you read about 

In the papers every day, 

Who knocked the Spanish navy out, 

Down in Manilla Bay; 

And bottled up Oevera, 

In the Santiago jug, 

And corked him up securely 

With his patent Hobson plug. 

101 



Why is all this cruel war? 

I can't quite understand, j 

And what they kill each other for | 

In battle, hand to hand. j 

Why, that is plain enough, I'm sure, ] 

For any one to see, i 

Old Uncle Sam could not endure ; 

The Spanish treachery. ■ 

1 

Has Uncle Sam'l any wife? I 

Well, no, not yet, my son, I 

But, I will bet my old jack-knife, i 

Some day he will have one. \ 

He has his eye upon a maid, ; 

Across the sea, 'tis said, ] 

And all of Europe feels afraid | 

That Sam and her'll wed. 1 

America and England j 

Will some day be allied, \ 

And Uncle Sam will then demand i 

His fair and blooming bride. i 

We'll hear no more the dreadful sound j 

Of war and its alarm, ; 

And Uncle Sam' 11 strut around j 

With Victoria on his arm. ! 




Far, Far Away, up the "Quiet Muskingum." 



Dp The Mtiskingam. 



Far, far away, up the "quiet Muskingum" 

Just over the crest of the hill, 
Stands the dearest old cabin in all of Grod's kingdom, 

I fondly remember it still. 

In fancy, I'd stand at the bars in the gloaming, 
When the sun's sinking low in the west; 

I can hear the bells tinkle and see the cows coming — 
Old Brindle and Cherry and Bess. 

In my dreaming I pass by the barn, where the swallows 

Used to chatter so soothingly sweet. 
And leisurely stroll down the lane to the hollows. 

Where someone and I used to meet. 

No more the bells tinkle, I hear not their humming, 
The swallows have deserted their nests; 

Yet someone is waiting, I know, for my coming. 
Some where in the "Valley of Best." 



103 



Happiest Days. 



I stood on the corner and watched the procession, 

When Forepaugh's circus was here, 
And my eyes filled with moisture in spite of the dickens, 

When I heard the boys holler and cheer, 
"Ho, ho! here he comes with his old baggy britches," 

Then quickly they circled around 
Th' little red wagon and loppy-eared donkey, 

Then toddled along with the clown. 

I watched the old fool till he got to the crossin' — 

The boys I no longer could see; 
Then the gay prancin' horses and riders in spangles 

Had lost all their sweetness to me. 
An' I thought of a home in an old country village. 

The dearest I ever have found. 
An' I sighed for the days when, a bare-footed urchin, 

I trotted along with the clown. 



104 



Whitcofflb Riley's Poems. 



I'll tell you what I like to do 

To pass the lonesome Sunday nights; 

Jes set aroun in my sock feet 

And read of days when life was sweet 

In pomes Whitcomb Riley writes. 

I like to read the "Swimmin' Hole," 
It takes me back to long ago, 
I seem to see 'twixt smiles 'n tears 
Adown life's rode some forty years, 
An' all the boys I us't know. 

I like to read "Ike Walton's prayer;" 
He seem'd so humble in his way, 
He only ast fer simple grace 
To look his naber in th' face 
With onesty frum day to day. 

No treasure heaps of gold ast he, 
He never prayed fer land nor kine, 
But only ast fer his poor sake 
The smilin' face of her to make 
His humble cot a place divine. 

Then thers ''The Old Mulberry Tree," 
I read that pome o'er and o'er. 
It seems to sooth a feller's brain 
An' sort o' wafts him back again 
The happy days he knew of yore. 

105 






Another favorite pome of mine 
Longfellow wrote about the clock, 
But then, lau sakes, it aint as fine 
As one 'at Riley wrote one time 
Bout "when the fodder's in the shock." 

There's one 'at always ketches me, 
About 'at ole sweetheart o' his; 
I read along and never care 

Until it comes about to where 

Well I can't tell you now — Gree whiz! 

There's something kind o' comf ortin 

When things air dull and times air slow | 

To jes rap up in Riley's books 

An paddle in the ole time brooks. 

It kind o' lulls and sooths us so. 



106 



A Comfflon Occmrence. 



Don't talk t' me, Matilda Jane — your breath is vainly 

spent — 
I'll never hev my life insured, not for one single cent. 
Now there wus Jinkins, over there, he owned a house 

an' lot, 
An' peach an' plum an apple trees, an' little garden spot. 
They seemed to be contented an' as happy as you please, 
An' when they got along in life, where they could live 

at ease, 
Well, he went out one chilly day without his overcoat. 
An' took th' influenzie an' th' kanker in th' throat; 
Then pneumonia started in, his lungs commenst t' fill, 
An' 'fore th' family doctor came, he had a nervous chill. 
Th' doctor told him tenderly thet he would soon expire, 
An' if he had a word t' say they'd better get th' 'Squire. 
"No will hev I to write," said he, "but all thet I possess, 
Th' house an' lot an' garden spot, when I hev gone t' 

rest. 
Beside a hansom' policy, I've kept up like a man, 
I leave t' her in widowhood, my wife, Samantha Ann." 
Thro' all th' night his mortal light wus burnin' kind o' 

low, 
Th' shadows on th' bedroom wall wus movin' to an' fro. 
An' with th' first streaks of morn, when day begin t, 

dawn, 
Ole Simmson came across th' lot and says, "Well, Jinks 

is gone." 

107 



He hed the biggest funeral, the meetin' house wus full, 
An' when they closed th' casket up they hed t' pull 

an' pull 
To get Samantha Ann away, fer she wus weepin' so; 
It tuck th' whole community t' coax her fer to go. 
Well, time went on as usual, Samantha moped around 
An' wore a great big mornin' veil thet nearly teched th' 

ground. 
But she, one day, by accident, as she wus passin' by, 
Espied a bow-leg'd bach'lor thet sort o' filled her eye. 
He wus a lazy, worthless shirk, an' all he did wus dress. 
He never did a lick o' work in all his life, I guess, 
But he wus sort o' ounnin' like, an' boldly pushed th' 

case. 
An' finally swooped Samantha Ann, then owned th' 

hull blamed place. 
An' any day you pass that way you'll see him settin' 

there 
Upon the porch, in idleness, without a thought o' care. 
He smokes an' chews an' reads th' news, contented as 

kin be, 
Injoyin' life with Jinks' wife on her big policy. 
But that's th' way it always goes, I've noticed now for 

years, 
I find thet when a feller's gone the widder seldom keers. 
'Tis fifty years this very spring since we stood side by 

side. 
Then I was fair with golden hair, an' you a blushin' 

bride. 

108 



I told the deacon plainly I'd take you for my wife, 
Thet I'd be true an' kind t' you through all your 

blessed life; 
But, through th' whole blamed questionin' it never 

once wus sed 
Thet I'd be held accountable fer you when I wus dead. 
So, don't you talk, Matilda Jane, your wind is vainly 

spent, 
I'll never hev my life insured, not for one single cent. 
I'll keep th' house an' barn insured, an' if they burn, 

well, then 
I'll take th' money thet I get an' build 'em up again. 
But ez for a life policy; look here, I'll jest be durn'd 
Ef eny man'll spludge around on money I hev earned. 



109 



When I Wtiz Jest a Kid. 



(with apologies to the preachers.) 
I remember very well when I wuz jest a kid, 
They hed pertracted meetin' every winter, so they did, 
An' mother hed the preacher fer t' come an' dine with 

us, 
An' then she'd go to bakin' pies an' make the mostes' 

fuss. 
The day that he wuz comin' she would kill a hen or so 
An' hev a chicken pot-pie and noodles out o' dough. 

When 'twas time for him to come she'd say, "Look here, 

now, boys. 
You fellers jest skedaddle out and don't make eny noise. 
Your pants air auful ragged, your feet air on the ground; 
You know th' preacher's comin', so you musn't hang 

around. 
Jes play about th' bam awhile until the meal is thro', 
An' when th' preacher's gone away I'll come an' call fer 

you." 
An' so we raced around the bam, John an' Bill an' I, 
Thinkin' all th' while about th' noodles an' th* pie. 
Soon she'd holler "Hoo-hoo," in the sweetest kind o' 

tones. 
But when we went to dinner there wuz nothing left but 

bones; 
Th' chicken it hed disappeared except th' neck an' wing' 
Of custard pie an' noodles, well, we couldn't find a thing. 

110 



I'd like to be a child again, ef I only could; 

I'd give th' hull blamed chicken to th' preacher, so I 

would. 
I wouldn't care a thing at all fer custard pie to eat, 
If I could jes hear mother call, with accent soft and 

sweet. 
Her old familiar "Hoo-hoo," jes as she always did 
In the happy long ago when I wuz jest a kid. 



Ill 



A Vision. 

Ingathering Day at the Woman's Home 
Brings many a happy thought to me. 
I sit and dream till my mind will roam 
Back to the days that used to be — 

Back to the happy long ago, j 

And see the faces I used to know. \ 

I see an old lady with frill and cap 

And hair so white it would shame the snow, | 

With knitting piled up in her spacious lap i 

And the glimmering needles pass to and fro; ; 

That was the face I loved the best. I 

Dearer by far than all the rest. ■ 

She used to sit by the broad fire side ! 

When the Holidays were drawing near, ] 

And tell us a tale of the Christmas tide j 

And Santa Glaus with his sled and deer. j 

When I think of Santa I seem to be ^ 

A child again at my mother's knee. 

They found her asleep in her chair one day j 

Beside the fire in her same old place; i 

They knew that her spirit had passed away i 

From the smile she wore on her dear old face. I 

The stockings were finished out to the toe j 

And tied with yarn at the ends just so. j 

They took her away to the Old Ladies' Home, ;! 

Somewhere over the jasper sea; ; 

Yet where e'er I wander, where e'er I roam, j 

My old mother's face comes back to me. | 

I can see her smile as she used to smile i 

When I was only a little child. i 

113 1 



Thanksgiyiflg. 



Thanksgiving Day has come again | 

And finds us as it ever should, ; 

With hearts brim full of thankfulness 

For everything that we possess; j 

For life and health and daily food. | 

Peace reigns supreme throughout the land, | 

The clash of war has passed away. ; 

The guns which shook El Caney's hill, i 

Like Morro's batteries, are still | 

And silent as the tomb to-day. i 

] 

Proud floats our flag from fort and mast I 

O'er new possessions of the sea. : 

We craved them not, great God, through greed, i| 

But that their subjects might be freed i 

From galling yokes of slavery. i 

The rod of Spanish Tyranny j 

Has lost its power and lordly sway. \ 

Crushed lie the chains fair Cuba bore, i 

Unshackled hands lift up once more j 

In gratitude, this holy day. ] 

Of all the blessings we enjoy \ 

Our liberty we prize the most. ] 

We kneel not unto earthly powers, 1 

To coronetted Queens nor Czars, 

But Thee alone, Lord God of Hosts. j 

Protect us through the coming years; j 

We need Thee for our God and Guide. 

We need Thy presence every day, I 

To cheer us o'er the untried way; 1 

Lord God of Hosts, with us abide. 

113 



The Man on the Dmnp. 



Yes, poetry lies everywhere; 1 

We need not search through stately halls, i 
Nor where the rippling water-falls 

Send high their misty spray in air. j 

'Tis scattered broadcast o'er the land. ) 

'Tis written everywhere we turn i 

In lessons that the wise might learn, : 

Could they but see and understand. 

j 

Now, there's a subject, wholly grand; j 

You see that old man over there ] 

With silvery beard and snowy hair, ■ 

And note the pitchfork in his hand? I 

Contentedly he's growing old. -I 

Yet in the furrows of his face | 

There lingers yet a little trace | 

Of some old love-tale yet untold. j 



Unmindful of the public's gaze. 

See, there he stands with head bowed down, 

Intently staring at the ground. 
In dreams, no doubt, of better days. 
For wealth nor fame he never lusts; 

His horny hands have yet to touch 

The tempting bribe now sought so much 
By some who fill the public trusts. 

114 



I 



Aged and decrepit with trembling knees, I 

A picture, seemingly, divine, 

He falters on the crossing line ] 
Between the two eternities. 

O! guardian of the garbage pile, i 

Altho' thou hast not wealth nor fame, , 

A king might envy you your name \ 

And future in the afterwhile. ! 



115 



The Grand Reyiew. 



An army is camping just over the way, 

Awaiting the grand review, \ 

Some are in garments of beautiful gray, j 

And others in blouses of blue. \ 
You may cross their lines in the dead of the night 

And never be halted by Who goes there? i 

For the sentinel's fallen fast asleep : 

And none but the angels vigils keep \ 

Over their forms so fair. ; 

They are peacefully waiting the judgment day \ 

When, as a groom and bride, j 

At the great command they shall march away, ] 

One by the other's side. I 

For the Savior hath said, "I will come again, — , 

Come J and claim My own."^^ i 

Then the command will be. File to the right/ \ 

Out of the darkness into the light, ' 
On to the great white throne. 
So, watch for your boy in the grand review 

As the army goes marching away; ; 

I'll look among the blouses of blue i 

And you look among the gray. I 



116 




I Stood 'an Watched Them Passin' 



Our Volunteers. 



When the notice in the Register appeared the other 

night, 
Thet new recruits wuz wanted for to carry on the fight, 
The people on the corners jes begun to hum and buzz. 
An' the town went clear beside itself, jes like it alius 

does, 
An' when they called the roll next day 'bout a hundred 

answered "Here," 
For the town of Marietta's where the boys '11 volinteer. 

They kin roast ole Marietta an' laugh till they air sick, 
An' make fun of Matamoras an' Lower Salem, up the 

crick; 
The little town o' Newport never gits a bit o' thanks. 
An' she has a dozen soger boys a swellin' up the ranks; 
They kin laugh at little Lowell with her Dutch an' 

Lager Beer, 
But they know jes where to come to when they want a 

volinteer. 

The first place in the County for to make a sacrifize 
Is the brave ole town of Beverly, where Private Wor- 

stel lies; 
An' there's ole Constitution, why, they don't know her 

at all. 
But she answers to the bugle ev'ry time they make a call. 
They kin laugh jes as they want to, an' snub ther nose 



117 



But they come to this ole County when they want a 
volinteer. 

I stood an' watched them passin' as they gaily marched 
away, 

An' my throat commenced to tickle when the band be- 
gun to play; 

I follered to the depo' for to see the last "good-byes," 

An' I couldn't see a single thing for somethin' in my 
eyes; 

The pressure got too heavy when the crowds begun to 
cheer, 

So I turned and said "God bless our Marietta volinteer." 

Why, the blamed ole railroad ingin thet wuz waitin' on 

the track, 
Had a patriotic spasm from the way she humped her 

back; 
An' the steam cocks in her cylenders wuz whizzin' 

ruther loud. 
An' the coaches thet the boys wuz in wuz feelin' rather 

proud. 
It's a sight thet I'll remember if I live a hundred years, 
When the train pulled from the depo' with our loyal 

volinteers. 



118 



To My Friend, E. R. Alderman. 



A useful man has passed away, 

Not dead — I'd have you understand — 
Just simply filled his mission through, 
Then changed the old life for the new, 
Protected by the same dear Hand. 

Life's walks to him were often rough, 
He never knew the word — defeat — 
But ever looked toward the light, 
And daily strove to do the right; 

'Twas this that made his life complete. 

A friend to me, full tried and true, 
He used me kindly through the press, 

And when he held this hand of mine 

I seemed to feel a thrill divine 
That spoke his inward manliness. 

The firmness of his fearless pen 
Drew censure from his fellowmen. 

With mind made up he staunchly stood; 

Despised the wrong, but loved the good; 
He catered not to clique nor clan. 

He did not live for self alone; 

To get and hold was not his greed; 
Oft helped the worthy in distress. 
Nor showed a tint of selfishness — 

A man in every act and deed. 

119 



'Twas thus he jogged along life's way- 
Reserved and modest to the end. 

He said but little, thinking much; 

And he with whom he came in touch 
Became an everlasting friend. 

Deserving of a well-earned rest, 

Like some old faithful water-mill, 
Time-worn by the heartless past. 
Whose burrs run slower — till at last 
The weary wheels of life stood still 



120 



Doug and Bill. 



'Twas Sunday morn, and all around 
The autumn sun shone bright and clear, 
When, on the unsuspecting ear 
There came a dull, terrific sound. 

A loud report, a fire alarm, 
The clang of gongs, the wild patrol, 
But ah ! too late, for one poor soul 
Had passed beyond all earthly harm. 

Brave, manly hearts were put to test, 
In vain they plied a dozen streams, 
A seething mass of tangled beams, 
Full well the public knows the rest. 

Two hearts that beat as one, had they. 
And side by side, from little boys 
They shared each other's griefs and joys 
Until that sad and fatal day. 

If I had Doug again with me 
I would not care at all, said Bill, 
And then his eyes began to fill. 
They grew so dim he could not see. 

In speaking of his recent loss. 
Said he, "It was an awful strain, 
But I must try and not complain 
For everybody has a cross." 

A little joy, a little pain, 
A little laughter mixed with tears, 
A little drifting with the years 
And Doug'l be with Bill again. 

121 



Old Fashioned Flowers. 



You may talk about crysanthemums and lilies if you 

please, 
And how they shed their fragrance on the early morn- 
ing breeze, 
And all about the bridal rose, geraniums and such, 
There isn't any flowers that will thrill my soul so much 
As the old-fashioned hollyhocks, my boyhood knew, 
And the dear old morning-glories in their red, white 
and blue. 

I like to see the roses bloom around the cot, 

The daisies in the orchard and the sweet forget-me-not, 

But their isn't any flowers that will thrill my soul with 

And bring me back the happy hours I knew when but 

a boy. 
As the old-fashioned morning-glories, loyal and true, 
In their patriotic colors of red, white and blue. 

If you visit home once more on fancy's downy wing. 
And see the place you know of yore and hear the robin 

sing, 
Just take a big red hollyhock and hold it to your nose 
And shut your eyes, and draw breath and sink into re- 
pose. 
Y< u can see the little cabin where the morning-glories 

grew 
In clusters o'er the window, in their red, white and blue. 

123 



Just Day By Day. 



If we could look adown the unseen years, ! 

And see our lives just as they are to be, l 

Besprinkled thickly here and there with tears, I 

Vicissitudes and cares and misery. 

How quickly we would look with upturned eyes, i 

And whisper softly, "Father, stay Thy hand, I 

We cannot bear to say these sad good-byes; '< 

This grief is greater far than we can stand. I 

Oh, draw the veil upon this scene, we pray, :. 

And let us live our lives, just day by day." \ 

i 

We should not worry so, and plot and plan ;] 

And borrow trouble from a future day, j 

For life at best is but a little span; I 

We scarce have come until we pass away. .;= 

It isn't best that you and I should know \ 

What future hours now hold for you and me; ] 

Our cups, perhaps, would fill to overflow, \ 

If we could pull the veil aside and see. j 

So, let us be contented while we may, | 

And simply live our lives, just day by day. 1 



123 



Beneath the Shades of Barmar Bill. 



In seventeen and eighty-eight, 

To seek a home and battle fate, 

A sturdy lot of Pioneers, 

Who daily watched 'twixt hopes and fears, 

Through poverty and pestilence. 

With trust in Grod and Providence, 

Strove bravely on with trusting soul. 

Still longing for the shining goal, 

Until at last with weary feet. 

They rested where two rivers meet. 

Now, as I write this silly rhyme, 

I look across the lapse of time — 

A century has passed away ; 

A city fair now stands to-day. 

With steepled church and noisy mill. 

Beneath the shades of Harmar Hill. 

And where the block house used to stand 

To shelter that heroic band, 

School children cut their childish pranks 

Along Muskingum's drowsy banks. 

Another century has dawned, 

The Pioneers have passed beyond. 

Time's pendulum swings to and fro — 

The winters come and the summers go; 

The years pass on incessantly, 

And we are drifting out to sea. 

134 



Oh. let us ever emulate 

The founders of this grand old State, ■ 

And strive each day to do our best, ; 

That when the time has come for rest, i 

Our names like theirs may ever be '^ 

Emblazoned in State's history. ] 

Now just a word before I close: ] 

I'd like to kindly say to those ! 

Who take an interest in the town, 1 

The valleys and the hills around, j 

Let no man ever change a name \ 

Now known in history or fame; i 

But ever keep inviolate | 

The birth-place of the Buckeye State. | 

I question not my neighbors' rights j 

To call the hill-tops, Fairview Heights; j 

But while I dwell in this abode i 

That stands above the graded road, j 

And have a hand to shove the quill, 
I'll proudly write of Harmar Hill. ■; 



125 i 



Happy Hans Schneider. 



I love dose leattle home uf mine, 

I neffer loaf der streeds about; 

I'm vorkin beasy all der dimes, 

Youst pullen veeds ter feed der schwines, 

Und hoe der cabbage fer der krout. 

I dond gid lonsom all der vile; 
I spade der garten fer der peans, 
Und ven id rains das mox nix ouse 
I helb de vimens ine der hous 
Und read der papers in betwens. 

Der Register I all ways dake, 

I lights mine bipe und read und schmoke. 

I lofe to read dose vuny dings 

Dur City Council dose, py chings; 

I laf undil mine sides vas proke. 

I bodders not mit bollidics, 
I notings care about der vars, 
Und ven I dinks of Ladyschmit 
Und Spionkop, I yout say nit 
Dose Shony Pulls can't fip der Pores. 

I vork youst like some honey pees; 

I daok der grape vines round der boroh, 

Und ven dose grapes got red ill make 

A leatle vine for stomach sake; 

You ort ter daste dot vine, py sohorge. 

126 



I dond comblain ov any dings; 
Fen sorrow comes I bodders not. 
I allvays loft my fellow mans, 
Und dry ter do der pest for Hans, 
Und all mine droubles lief mit Got. 



137 



spring Fever. 



Clover blossoms on the breeze, 

Butterflies hez come, 
Yellow leg'd bumble bees 

Begin to buzz and hum. 
The atmosphere is hazy, 

Sort o' smoky hue, 
Feller feels so lazy 

Don't know what ter do. 

Ort to plow the garden spot 

'Stead of loafin' 'round. 
Still, the sun is mighty hot 

Fer dig'n in the ground; 
Guess I'll wait till last o' May, 

And plow it all together; 
Garden stuff won't grow, they say, 

This air kind o' weather. 

Think I'll cut a fish'n pole- 
Got a hook and line — 

Like to take a little stroll. 
Say, they're bit'n fine. 

Guess I'd rather hunt the shade — 
Ain't got any bate. 

Hunt'n fishworms with a spade, 
That air's what I hate. 

128 



OnelooL 



I often go back to the scenes of my boyhood, 
To the days of my longing to see the old home; 

Back to the roadside where the old-fashioned home 
stood — 
Its visions will haunt me wherever I roam. 

There was old Jerry, I shall always remember, 
How I rode him to mill with a grist on behind; 

How all the boys "hollered" like crows in September, 
Simply because the old fellow was blind. 

And many more troubles I had in my childhood, 
That do not seem pleasant just now to recall; 

But one that I hated far more than the others 
Was the wood that I chopped along in the fall. 

I thought when I struck on the hard, knotty dogwood — 
Then looked the pile over for something more green- 
That my careless old mother could burn up more stove- 
wood 
Than all of the women I ever had seen. 

I have seen the grand city with all its temptations ; 

I have looked for its pleasures and fancies in vain; 
I would willingly chop all the wood in creation 

For one, only one, look at mother again. 



139 



Beroes of The Herrimac. 



What became o' them, — who can tell? — 
Th' heroes who sailed on the Merrimac, 

An' entered th' very gates of hell? 

Air they livin' ? Did they come back ? 

Well, ef they did it is awful queer, 

For the name o' Hobson is all we hear. 

I aint no pessimist in my views — 

I only argy for the right; 
I b'lieve in givin' th' devil his dues. 

And cheer'n th' feller who fit the fight, 
Though he be coxswain or ingineer; 
But it seems that Hobson is all we hear. 

When Schley had completed Cervera's fall. 
An' swept his eyes o'er the wreck-strewn sea, 

Said he, "There's honor enough for all," 
An' that is the kind of a man for me; 

But Hobson, he's claimin' the hull blamed cheer, 

An' the name of his comrades we never hear, 



130 



Where Ships Lie Moored. 



While plodding on from day to day 

Adown life's mystic, untried way, 

Remember, you are not alone. 

Though storms may rise, 

Though dark the skies, 

There is an ever shining light 

To guide you through the darkest night 

And lead you to the great unknown. 

God guides your bark from hour to hour, 

Though billows roll and tempests rage. 

Until it finds an anchorage 

Beyond the reef, beyond the bar, 

Where ships lie moored with sails all furled, 

No more to go about the world. 



131 



Life's Problem. 



I've studied life's problem over and over, 

The sunshine, the shadows and all, 
And I'm puzzled to know if the proverbial honey 

Is equally mixed with the gall. 
I've balanced the storm with the calm that comes after, 

I've weighed all the hopes with the fears, 
And I've wondered if all of the joy and the laughter, 

Repaid for the toil and the tears. 

I've counted the profits along with the losses, 

Successes along with mistakes. 
And I've thought that the crowns underbalanced the j 

crosses | 

And the soothing fell short of the aches. 
I may have judged wrong, if I have I am sorry, 

'Tis nothing but human to err. 
But what is the use for to bother and worry 

When trials and troubles occur. 

So I'll jog up the highway of life at my leisure, 

No odds what reverses I meet; 
I'll take what is given of sorrow or pleasure, 

The bitter as well as the sweet. 
Though snares may allure us and dangers alarm us. 

We should battle the world with a will, 
And pull for the goal though we die in the harness 

Down at the foot of the hill. 

132 



INDEX. 



The Little Cot Against The Hill. - 5 

Christmas Eve on Harmar Hill. - - 6 

Home. . . - . 7 

Beautiful Eyes. . . - . 8 

When Th' Fields is Full o' Dandelions. - 9 

A Miser^s Fate. - - - 10-11 

Boyhood Days. - - - 12-13 

Whisperin' o' May. - - 14-15 

In Memoriam-Nira Belle Messick. - 16 

Bring Ye Sweet Flowers. - - - 17 

I Trustingly Wait. ... 18 

Marching Through Cuba. - - - 19 

John Barleycorn. - - - 20 

The Judge. - - - - 21 

The Grape Vine Swing. - - 22 

Ed Skinner. - - - - 23 

To Sol. Smith Russell. - - - 24 

Beverly Long Ago. - - - 25 

Please Send The Register. - - 26 

The First Church. - - 27-28 

Spring. - - - - 29 

When the Leaves Turn Red. - 30-31-32 

John Anderson, My Jo John. - - 33-34 

Autumn in Two Cities. - - - 35 

My Friend. . _ . . 36-37 

Retrospection. - - - - 38 

What Shall it Profit? . . - 39 

Sometime. - - - - 40 



Wait Not. 

Crystals of Sadness. 

Marietta. 

The Stingy Man. 

Advice. 

Life's Lease. 

When I First Tuck the Grip. 

It Snows. 

Memoriam-Greneva Roney. 

The Old, Old Town. 

Christmas. 

January 1st, '98. 

The Ferry Boat. 

From the Cradle to the Grave. 

June. 

Phantom Ships. 

Passing Scenes. 

You're Not Dead Yet. 

Circumstances Alter Cases. 

Her Letters. 

To The High School Cadets. 

Old Time Joys. 

Out Along The T. & O. 

The Man With The Hod. - 

Only Waiting. 

When Fall Comes Back. 

Retrospection. 

If I Could Write. 

Dear Old Home. 

When Th' Gas Plays Out. 

Old Times. 

When There's Ice Friz in The Basin. 

In the Afterwhile. 

To Isaac and Rebecca Williams. 

Deal Justly. 



41 

- 42 
43 

- 44 
45 

46-47 

48-49 

50 

51 

52 

53 

54 

55 

56 

57-58 

59 

60-61 

62-63 

64-65 

66 

67 

68 

69-70 

71-72 

73 

74-75 

76-77 

78 

79-80 

81 

82-83 

84 

85 

86 

87-88 



The Last Tribute of Love. 


89 


After the Bitter Comes the Sweet. 


90 


Restingville. 


91 


The Maine. - - - 


92-93 


Modern Hypocrisy. 


94-95 


When We Lie Down. 


96 


When Spring Comes Back. 


97-98 


Rose Hill School. 


99-100 


Uncle Sam. - " - 


101-102 


Up the Muskingum. 


103 


Happiest Days. 


- 104 


Whitcomb Riley's Poems. 


- 105-106 


A Common Occurrence. 


107-108-109 


When I Wuz Jest a Kid. 


- 110-111 


A Vision. 


- 112 


Thanksgiving. 


113 


The Man on the Dump. 


114-115 


The Grand Review. 


116 


Our Volunteers. 


117-118 


To My Friend, E. R. Alderman. 


- 119-120 


Doug and Bill. 


- 121 


Old Fashioned Flowers. 


122 


Just Day By Day. 


- 123 


Beneath the Shades of Harmar Hill. 


- 124-125 


Happy Hans Schneider. 


126-127 


Spring Fever. 


128 


One Look. _ _ - 


- 129 


Heroes of the Merrimac. - 


130 


Where Ships Lie Moored. - - 


- 131 


Life's Problem. - - 


132 



